The Encounter
by Rector
Summary: This is the result of a thrown gauntlet to make an unscientific concept (Omegaverse) realistic. As always, acknowledgement and thanks to Messrs. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson.
1. Chapter 1: The Meeting

This is the result of a thrown gauntlet to make an unscientific concept (Omegaverse) realistic. As always, thanks and acknowledgement to Messrs. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson.

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**The Encounter**

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**An Inauspicious Beginning**

Rafe Erwood is Dead – Melodramatics – Watching Grace Chandler – Making Friends – Tequila and Togetherness – An Island Dream – Omega Revealed – Escape into Danger – Tracked – Transgression, Retribution and Adjournment.

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"Tell me how you knew him," the stranger slid an eight-by-six, black-and-white photo across the table, his eyes gauging her every reaction from the depth of her breathing to the number of times she blinked. He watched as the fine hairs on her arms lifted imperceptibly.

Of medium height, average build and with immaculately cut ash-blonde hair already tending to grey, he watched the woman as she absorbed the contents of the image in her hand.

The subject in the photograph was one of her old Cambridge professors, Ralph Erwood, who had seen her through the final efforts of her doctorate. They had kept in touch for a number of years after she'd left Clare College, casual letters, the odd invitation up to High tea, but the emails gradually petered out, as these things do. She hadn't heard from Ralph in ... what? Two years, now.

"Rafe supervised the last year of my PhD," she said, picking the photo up between finger and thumb, scanning the half-smile on the professor's face. He had been a pleasant man; a little driven at times, but not overly difficult as a mentor. "He was good to work with, knowledgeable, helpful, lent me piles of his own books; always kept his sense of humour even when I had a minor meltdown about three months from the end," she shook her head as her lips curved in the same half-smile as the photograph. "Why?"

Wait ..._ knew?_

"He's dead," the man across the table read the question from her thoughts. "Victim of a hit-and-run last Friday evening."

_Oh God._

"That's awful," she frowned in immediate empathy. "Did you find whoever did it?"

"_Rafe?_" clearly answering questions wasn't the stranger's thing.

"It's Welsh; it's how he pronounced it," she was still focused on the horror of the hit-and-run, her thoughts miles away. But why was_ she _here answering questions?

"Your name was on the back of an old playbill in his pocket," the man read her mind again.

"I have no idea why that would be," she said, looking up into a dark-blue stare. "I haven't seen Rafe for ages; haven't had an email from him in years."

"Why would Professor Erwood maintain a relationship with you ..." the man checked a notation in the file beside the photograph. "For some twelve years _after_ you completed your studies with him? Isn't that excessive for an academic relationship between teacher and pupil?" he tilted his head slightly forward, his face blank but his tone marginally curious.

She smiled. "I take it you've not completed a doctorate, _Mr_ ...?"

"Holmes," he blinked slowly. "Mycroft Holmes."

"A conventional doctorate of _any_ kind, Mr Holmes?"

Another slow blink.

"Because if you had," she paused, meeting his eyes again. "Then you'd know how close the supervisor – candidate relationship can be."

"And just _how_ close were you to Rafe Erwood?" Holmes rested both elbows on the table between them, his fingers meshed as he fixed her with a deliberate look. "Student? Disciple? _Lover?_"

He was being deliberately provocative but two could play at the not answering questions game, she realised, blinking as slowly as he had.

"Why the interest?" she leaned back. "Rafe was very quiet, the thoughtful type; calm and kind. An old-fashioned kind of Brit; a dependable Beta. I liked him a lot."

Returning the photograph to the file, Holmes looked down at the table as if collecting his thoughts. "The man you knew as Rafe Erwood was neither British nor a Beta," he paused. "Nor was he particularly kind, as it happens."

The words punched the air between them, not quite reality but alarming, nonetheless.

She felt her body straighten unconsciously in her seat, her shoulders pushing back as she raised her face towards her interrogator. "Rafe, _not_ British_?_ Not a ... but that's impossible. I worked closely with the man for over a year; I've had dinner with him, been to parties with him ..." she found she too was staring down, eyes unfocused. "We drank wine together ... I would have known. There would have been _something_," her lungs were curiously empty of air and her voice faded. It was all quite mad. They must have Rafe confused with another. This Holmes person had got it wrong. Maybe it wasn't even Rafe who had been in the hit-and-run ...

"I'm very much afraid, Doctor Chandler, that there is no error; that the man you knew as Rafe Erwood, was rather one Vasily _Orlov_; a Russian spy, an Alpha and a brutal killer," Holmes rested both hands flat on the table in front of him as he held her still-unconvinced gaze.

"Rafe couldn't possibly have been an Alpha without me knowing about it," Grace Chandler was adamant. He'd been British to the core; he even spoke Welsh and knew the middle verse to the national anthem. She'd seen the man at his best and at his worst and not once, _not once_, had he shown a single Alpha trait. Rafe had been a clever, intellectual, caring Beta, a gentle man.

"Additionally," Holmes sounded speculative. "The very fact that you find Orlov's status worthy of mention suggests you yourself are not Beta," he looked at her sideways, one eyebrow lifted.

"Something which is absolutely none of your business," Grace scowled, mostly at herself for opening this particular door.

A person's status had been considered entirely private and confidential for decades; since the mid nineteen-forties, in fact, when the newly formed United Nations laid down laws for all member-nations regarding the sanctity of individual human rights. These rights applied to not only the ninety-eight percent of the human race who were natural-born Betas, but also to those belonging to the remaining groups which composed the balance of the species; Omegas and Alphas.

Omegas, the creators and visionaries, and Alphas, fighters and leaders. An autochthonic mutation for which there were few practical theories and even fewer scientific explanations. It just happened: the human race evolving to produce what it needed, apparently.

Yet for every thousand _capita_ of the average Beta population, there might be only one or two children who, at puberty, developed the additional and frequently troublesome senses and abilities of the Alpha or Omega. The children usually needed special support, sometimes even special care and training; medication or even therapy was sometimes required to help the young ones through the time of change until they could master the unfamiliar and confronting abilities. It was the families who had to deal with their frighteningly rapid intellectual and sexual maturation. It could be a costly and intimidating experience for both the children and those close to them; many Alphas, in particular, were hounded and bullied by older children, even by their own siblings and often became solitary and withdrawn. It made great sense to keep the status of such children undisclosed as far as possible. Given the rarity of the mutation, a family might only ever see such a child every few generations.

Nor could such births be planned or predicted, though several scandalous eugenics programs over the years had certainly attempted it. Having an Alpha or an Omega as a parent could not guarantee the same status in a child; not even if _both_ parents were from these groups might children be certain of realising such traits, although national archive records indicated a higher incidence of status-inheritance in those offspring where Alpha and Omega had been paired as parents.

And now, of course, there were so many bizarre urban legends and myths about each group that even post-adolescence, relatively few individuals actually wanted their status publically known. For most, the issue of status was kept as private as their income-level. Other than a small number of intrinsic distinctions; greater strength, aggression and strategic ability in the Alpha, a higher density of synaptic connections, artistic talents and linguistic skills in the Omega, there was nothing that marked either group as physically different. Both groups possessed above average IQs. Status information was recorded nowhere except in medical records, in case the individual was diagnosed with a condition that might be exacerbated by the mutation but such data was not needed elsewhere, not even on a marriage licence. Most Omegas and Alphas kept their heads down and simply got on with their lives, doing whatever it was they were good at, just like everybody else.

Naturally, there were always some who felt differently. Big business, politics and the armed services offered a natural haven to many Alphas who embraced the few opportunities most suited to their inherent inclinations. Both genders of Alpha usually did superbly well in pressurised, high-ranking roles, jobs for which their temperament was an inalienable match. Revealing one's Alpha-status during a promotion interview in these fields rarely hurt.

Likewise, some of the greatest artists and free-thinkers were also happy to reveal their Omega origins, perhaps because such creative, philosophical individuals cared very little for the opinions of others. The entertainment industry was thronged with a wide range of characters from both groups; many celebrated actors and musicians of both genders actively exploiting their Alpha or Omega stage-presence; the ability to generate millions of screaming fans not unpleasant to them in the least.

And even though both Alphas and Omegas were comparatively rare, given the current British population of nearly sixty-four million, it meant there were well over a million of them in the general population, a not-insignificant demographic.

But when a complete stranger suggested, out of the blue, that you were anything other than _normal_, it was perfectly acceptable to take offence.

Grace Chandler was therefore offended.

"I have no idea what you have to do with Rafe Erwood," she said icily. "But if you have any more specific questions to ask about_ him_, then please ask," she sat back and folded her arms, an expression of mild annoyance across her features. "Otherwise, I think I'd rather like to leave. I've done nothing wrong. I don't know anything about Rafe other than the things I've already mentioned, and until you find something with which to charge me or keep me in this horrible place," she looked around at the small, windowless room. "Then I'd like to go."

The man, Holmes, said nothing, though his eyes narrowed briefly. "You haven't answered my question," he said.

"Was there, in fact, a question to answer?" Grace felt herself tense with what might have been anger, though of late, she rarely gave into such reactions. "You made an impolite observation which I've chosen to ignore," she stood, picking up her jacket and sliding her bag onto her shoulder. "Are we done?"

She was innocent of any deliberate conspiracy, he was confident of that, though there was always the possibility she might know things of which she was, as yet, unaware. There was also _something_ about her which gave him pause. He wondered what it was.

Was she prevaricating? Misleading him? _Lying?_ Mycroft Holmes didn't imagine for a moment that her lies – if she was lying – were premeditated; the way her autonomous reactions revealed her thoughts negated that as a serious possibility.

He wondered if it was her frankness that set him back; most people who came in here, under these conditions, lacked the self-confidence and personal assurance to maintain such _savoir-faire_ under questioning, which made this sense of _something_ all the more provoking.

_If Grace Chandler wasn't a Beta, then what was she?_ He had no clear idea why he wanted to know, or even what bearing it might have on the current investigation, but the knowledge felt important. Her medical records could be on his desk within ten minutes, but he found himself impatient for the information.

She stood, silent, waiting for him.

He rose to his feet, his eyes not leaving her face. "You may go, but I ask you to stay in London for the near future in case there are further questions," he paused, diffidently. "If you wouldn't mind?"

Perfectly ready to tell the man to go to hell, his last words took some of the wind from her sails. Grace had no idea what was going on, other than she had been pretty much forced to come along to this godforsaken place to be grilled by this strange man. She didn't much like it.

_But._

If what he said was true ... if Rafe really was ... although she could hardly credit even the possibility of it ... a _spy_, then she could understand both the questioning and this Holmes person's attitude. If he were a spy-catcher then he'd need to be suspicious of everything, she supposed. If it were her job, would she be any different?

"As you probably already know, I curate the special collection at the Temple Archives in Essex Street," she said, meeting his eyes. "It's a private foundation funded between the London Law Chambers and Bar Council, and I'm there every weekday between ten and five," she paused, assessing him objectively for the first time since she'd arrived. Tall, stylish; gravitas of a Supreme Court judge. "If you have any further questions for me, please ask them in a civilised manner in the normal way," she looked pointedly at the door. "May I go now?"

Holmes repressed a smile; it was as if his old Oxford tutor was speaking.

Walking across, he looked at her once again before depressing the handle and pulling it open.

"Please understand this is nothing personal," he said, offering his hand. "I will be in touch if I need further details. In the interim, please treat this conversation as confidential."

Still not terribly happy, she shook his hand, surprised as he drew it up to his mouth, brushing her skin momentarily with his lips before pressing his nose against her inner wrist and inhaling.

_Scenting! He was scenting her! As if this were some childish playground game!_

Wrenching her arm away, Grace glared, allowing anger to cloud her normally placid grey eyes to a stormy darkness. "You _odious_ man," she hissed, marching through the door without a backwards glance.

Watching as she stormed off, Mycroft Holmes was tantalised. Other than a lightly floral fragrance, he had been able to discern nothing whatever of the signature essences usually associated with Alpha or Omega. Even more interesting was the observation that_ he couldn't smell anything at all_. Grace Chandler had no personal scent whatsoever, not even that of a Beta. She was on a suppressant of some kind and now he found himself exceedingly curious as to why.

Exiting the large, anonymous Portland stone building on Millbank, Grace was still furious and threw her hand out imperiously for a cab. In a matter of seconds, a ubiquitous black shape drew into the kerb, the driver waiting until she was comfortably seated.

"Twenty, Essex Street, please," she inhaled slowly, attempting to rid herself of this sudden and uncommon level of anger. She almost _never_ lost it like this, but that man had not only crossed one line too many, but had seemed utterly unconcerned about it. _Vile creature_.

Crossing Lambeth Bridge, the cab ended going up Blackfriars Road before re-crossing the river and bearing left towards the Temple Gardens and her destination.

Paying the driver and walking through the dark double-doors in the centre of the pristine cream neoclassical frontage, Grace felt herself relaxing as the bouquet of lavender floor wax, expensive aftershave and old books greeted her. This place was more like home than home and as she made her way to her cramped office to the rear of the first floor, the anger finally abated, leaving her vaguely fatigued and desperate for a drink of something hot and energising.

She picked up the phone on her desk and keyed a local number.

"Allan," the male voice was pleasingly deep.

"I'm in need of caffeine," she said. "Want to buy me a coffee?"

A brief pause. "Of course," he was smiling; she could hear it. Robert Allan had been courting her for several months now and was always pleased when she made time for him during the work-day. "See you in the Edgar in ten minutes?"

"Perfect," Grace sat back in her uncomfortable, squeaky chair and thought about the morning's conversation. Other than the fact she had met an unpleasant man, the main thing that occupied her thoughts was the death of her old supervisor. Could Rafe Erwood really have been a Russian spy? It seemed impossibly incongruous.

There was only one urgent message in her email inbox and her phone message-bank; the same message, in fact. Reading the email, her heart sank. The Ripoll Transcript she'd been chasing for almost a year had been removed from the upcoming Sotheby's Bond Street auction without explanation, just when she finally had a real chance to grab it for the collection at a reasonable price. It was the hand-scribed proceedings of the very last _autos-da-fé_ of the Catholic Church, in Spain, in 1826. The Vatican, with all its vast wealth, tended to snap these things up as soon as the merest whiff of one appeared in a sales catalogue. But _this_ one she really wanted and had gone all-out in order to secure it for the Black Books collection: an exclusive portfolio of legal records that spanned centuries. A friend in Sotheby's had given her a head's up that the parchment would be included in the next week's catalogue; it was all very low-key and interest, apparently, was minimal. _Il Testimonio de Cayetano Ripoll_ was looking good for acquisition.

And now she had two messages saying it had been withdrawn. _Bugger_.

After a swift check to ensure there was nothing time-critical, five minutes later she grabbed her bag and made her way out into the narrow street where virtually everybody on the pavement had some connections to the Royal Courts of Justice. Barristers, Plaintiffs and Defendants. Well-known Judges strolled these streets around Middle and Inner Temple, rubbing shoulders with Clerks and clients, Silks and solicitors, victims and villains. The British Law scene was nothing if not egalitarian.

Crossing to the far side of the street, it took Grace less than two minutes to reach _the Edgar Wallace_, the nearest pub and, since the demise of nearby Fleet Street, one which catered almost wholly to the legal profession. This was important in a number of different ways.

The first was that you never knew whom you might meet inside the pub, but whoever it was; they would be involved with the legal system in some way. This was a given, and it meant you had to be careful what you said and to whom. It also meant that regardless of time of day or night, there would almost always be several small coteries hunched over one of the round tables, sharing strong liquor and sad stories: it was the lot of legal professionals; the one that got away the usual cause for such enclaves. Finally, you could be sure of hearing all the latest gossip, and legal gossip was always the best.

Heading to their usual table in a corner, Grace waved at Janice behind the bar and held up two fingers. "Due caffè espresso, per favore," she called, waving again as the Italian barista nodded. Coffee was on the way.

In less than a minute, an immaculately-suited male scootched into the corner beside her, leaning in for a light kiss.

"Hello, darling," Robert Allan smiled.

A pleasant man; kind, thoughtful, usually generous and always willing to please, Grace realised he was probably going to propose soon. Their relationship had always been more of a friendship than a mad passion, but they dealt well together and they knew mostly the same people. There was no effort to being with Robert; things just happened easily and logically. If he asked her to marry him, she'd more than likely say yes.

"How is my favourite bibliophile this fine morning?"

Leaning away as the coffees arrived, Grace heaved something of a sigh. Repellent though he might be, the Holmes man had asked her to keep the morning's discussion confidential, and if there was the slightest chance he was correct and Rafe actually _was_ a ... then she'd better not mention it. That only left her with one bit of news.

"Sotheby's have withdrawn the Ripoll parchment from next week's auction," she said, a little glumly. "I've been chasing it for a year, ever since I knew it might be up for sale. It's a spectacular document and would add real depth to the European collection."

"What did Sotheby's expect it to realise?" Robert stirred sugar into his very small cup of coffee.

"About twenty thousand, give or take," Grace inhaled the fragrant steam. "Nothing at all, really, in the scheme of things, and I've barely used half of this year's new acquisition budget, so no problem there, either."

"Weren't the valuers due in last week for the new insurance premiums?" his speciality was business law and such things as insurances and ownership were important in his world.

Grace shrugged. The monetary value of these wonderful documents was almost the last thing she thought about when she acquired them for the Law collection. These fragments were artefacts of history unbound; argument and antiquity melded together in the crucible heat of human trial ... the very thought of what the collection represented in human terms made her heart beat a little harder. And she was the guardian. Insurance was important for the stakeholders; there was, after all, a great deal of money invested in the archives, but for her, the stories themselves were the critical worth.

"Sorry," she smiled over the top of her cup. "Caught me wandering off," Grace laughed. "Yes; the Lloyds people came back last week with the archive's new appraisal; it's rather impressive."

"And?"Robert grinned. "Don't tease."

"It's worth over three mil now," Grace looked into her empty cup. "From virtually nothing to three million in two years, is not bad, though I say it myself."

Her companion whistled softly. "I'd call that something worthy of a celebration," he smiled again. "Dinner tonight at Medlar?" his smile lingered. It was one of her favourite eateries.

"You spoil me," she met his eyes. Pale blue eyes, clear and honest and decent. "Yes," she said, suddenly reckless. "_Yes_."

Her tone was oddly emphatic, and he frowned a little. "Yes to what?" he asked, wondering if he'd missed something.

"Yes to everything," Grace brushed his lips with her own. "I have to go and find out what I can about the Ripoll transcript," she said. "They might tell me if it's up for private sale."

"I have a briefing with a Hong Kong firm this afternoon," Robert helped her up. "Pick you up at seven?"

Grace was still smiling as she walked along the street towards the Archives and paid little attention to the sleek black Jaguar that drew to a silent halt at the kerb. The kerbside rear door opened.

"Get in the car, please, Doctor Chandler," the voice was horribly familiar.

Peering into the roomy interior, she felt her stomach sink. "When you said you might have further questions, I didn't realise you meant to ask them today," she said, an acidic edge to her words.

"There have been developments, please, Doctor Chandler; get in the car."

"What developments?" Grace was damned if she'd be at this man's beck and call.

Holmes sighed in exasperation. "There's been another death, now will you _get_ _in the car?_"

"Who was it this time?" she asked settling into the soft leather, still not convinced of the need to speak to him so soon.

"Another student at the university," Holmes tapped an umbrella ferule on the glass privacy screen and the car pulled gently away.

"Hey, wait!" Grace quickly fastened the seatbelt around her. "You said to get in the car; there was nothing about going anywhere."

"Merely ensuring I have your complete attention, Doctor," Holmes eyes flickered over her face. "How long have you known Robert Allan?" he said, a cool blue gaze watching her response.

"How is that any of your business?" Grace felt a recurrence of her earlier irritation. "I thought this was all about Rafe Erwood?"

"Not anymore," Holmes met and held her eyes with his own. "Allan?"

"Robert is in international business law," she said, grudgingly. "I met him more than a year ago at a Law Council dinner, if you really must know."

"I really must," he sounded officious. "And are you planning to marry him?"

"Stop the car," Grace began to unbuckle. "Stop the car; I refuse to dignify this interrogation with any further response," she said, her hand on the door. "Stop the car now, please."

"And if I don't?" the expression on Holme's face was equal parts wariness and amusement.

"Then I'll jump." The road was busy and the car was crawling. "We're not doing more than ten miles an hour," she said. "Last chance," Grace clicked the door open, holding it closed with both hands.

"Such melodramatics, Doctor Chandler," he tapped the screen again and the Jaguar drew gently into the nearest kerb. "Before you make good your escape, know that your life may be in danger," Holmes said nothing else, just sat and looked at her.

The fact that he was letting her leave enabled Grace to stay. She closed the door and relaxed her grip on the handle. "How do you know that?"

"The student who died was one of Erwood's PhDs, close to the time you were at Cambridge," Holmes handed her a small photograph. A blonde woman; it was nobody she knew. "She had recently returned for further qualifications and had been seen talking with Erwood."

Grace shook her head uncertain of what to say.

"This is the third death we are now able to connect to your old supervisor and there is good reason to believe whoever targeted him, has widened their parameters," he paused. "You may be in danger."

It was all a bit much to take in; she stared down at her hands. "Even if that were true," she said slowly. "How is this information going to help me?"

"We are arranging security cover for those individuals deemed at risk," he frowned a little. "It means having someone stay with you for a while."

"In my flat?" Grace wasn't remotely enthused by the idea. "For how long?"

Holmes was silent, but his gaze was eloquent. "A few days, perhaps."

"Is this absolutely necessary?" she was deadly serious now. "Do you honestly consider me to be at risk?"

"In truth, I'm not sure, but I'd prefer to err on the side of caution."

"And caution will last for how long?

"Until I'm sure we have encompassed the full nature of the situation and neutralised the danger."

Grace wasn't sure she wanted to know what _neutralised_ meant, at least, not the way he meant it. "So, I'm looking at ... a few days, weeks ... what?"

"Possibly weeks, but more realistically, days," Holmes pulled a silver fob-watch from a waistcoat pocket. "She'll be waiting for you at your flat as of now," he added, a faint smile to his mouth.

"Who will?"

"Your temporary security; it'll require no special effort on your part. Just imagine you've got a distant relative in the spare ... _room_ for a little while," the faint smile seemed more pronounced.

"You know about my spare room?" Grace felt her head spin. Who _was_ this guy?

"And it would be best if you were to stay away from your workplace for a few days as well," he added, nodding. "You're too easy a target on the street."

"I cannot possibly stay away from work right now," Grace scowled. "I have far too many pressing matters on my plate to simply cut and run."

"Already taken care of, Doctor Chandler," and somehow she knew the faint smile on his face was a genuine one. "Your employers have been advised that you have decided to rush to the continent to secure a particularly rare specimen for your beloved collection," he lifted his eyebrows. "Nobody was the least surprised, I might add."

"I have a dinner engagement this evening," she protested.

"With Allan? Not a good idea; I think you'll need to postpone. I'm sure you will be able to make it up to the gentleman at some later date." There was no hint of mockery on his face.

"I thought that was what security was for?"

"Bit unfair to her to make such an easy target of yourself, don't you think?" Holmes smiled again, but this time it was official and polite. "Best not," he said, as if that were that.

"I haven't even agreed to accept your ... security _person_," Grace felt the situation was getting away from her.

"Ah," Holmes looked at his watch again, lifting his eyebrows regretfully. "On that matter, my assistant is probably securing the premises as we speak," he paused. "Apologies."

"Your ... _this woman is_ _in my flat?_"

His eyebrows resumed their normal location. "We would have reached there before such an event had you not required me to stop the car."

"_Arghhh_," Grace clenched her fists. "And what if I were to tell you to go directly to hell and to take your security person with you?" she demanded, the light of battle in her eyes. "You have no right to do any of this."

"Then to ensure your safety, I will simply have you taken into police custody whereupon you would spend the necessary amount of time in some dreary little motel off the M25," he sighed gustily. "Can we _please_ stop this futile argument as I have every right to take any step I deem necessary to safeguard national security."

"I can't believe this is happening to me," Grace found she was relaxing back against the back of the seat, her head spinning.

Holmes tapped the glass screen and the car pulled out into traffic once again, heading down the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge.

Leaning her head in her hand, Grace was reduced to staring out of the window as the Jaguar cruised over the bridge and turned into Stamford ... she knew the route well, she walked it every day to work. The remainder of the journey to her house passed in the deepest of silences.

As the car was gliding to a perfect halt outside of a large converted warehouse in Duchy Street, Holmes cleared his throat. "Understand, Doctor Chandler, this is to make certain of your personal safety while this situation remains extant," he said. "Regardless of your belief, I do not wish to make your life miserable, but to protect it."

"Given that I apparently have absolutely no say in any of this, I have no idea why you bother to share your reasons with me," Grace was detached and impassive, her face cool and composed. "Nor am I the least interested in hearing them. Goodbye, Mr Holmes," she clicked the door open and slipped out before there was any opportunity for a response.

###

Watching Grace Chandler slide from the car and cross the pavement to her door gave him a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. She was angry, yes; frustrated and irritated that she was being manipulated against her will. But there was still something about her that niggled at him; like an itch deep inside he could neither identify nor reach.

The woman's private records had been of little help. Adopted at an early age, everything his people could put together on her was patchy at best. Even her medical records seemed to be blank before the age of sixteen when she had a horse-riding accident requiring spinal surgery. At that point her blood-group was recorded as O-negative, a fact which comprised virtually the entirety of her records, with nothing else that might be considered unusual or even different. There was no note anywhere of childhood illness, of any of the usual vaccinations or examinations common to small children. Nor was there any note of her status, whether it be Beta, Alpha or Omega. Only the hospitalisation as a teenager and then nothing for years, until serious influenza four years ago saw her leave a job in the arts restoration industry and work freelance in the antiquities acquisition field before accepting her current role at the Law Archives. Other than that, the good doctor was effectively anonymous; a blank page and Mycroft Holmes neither valued nor trusted blank pages.

Nor did he believe them.

Grace Chandler was the epicentre of too many questions and he was going to find the answers to each and every one with, or without her co-operation.

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The main ground-floor foyer was empty. Walking up the couple of flights of stairs to her entranceway and pulling the key from her bag, Grace saw the door to her flat was still locked, but that meant nothing if someone was already on the inside. Unlocking everything and walking to the centre of the wide entry hall, she dropped her bag onto an old writing desk standing incongruously in the middle of the open space.

"Okay, where are you?"

There was nothing but silence for a couple of seconds, before Grace made out the quiet footfalls of a woman's shoes on the recycled hardwood floor. In another moment, a tall, slender brunette appeared from around one of the heavy supporting pillars.

"Hi," she nodded. "Call me Anthea."

Grace folded her arms. "I'm not happy you're here," she said. "This is against my will."

"It's not exactly my preference, either," the brunette made a face. "The _state_ of this place."

"What do you mean, 'state'?" Grace frowned, looking around this part of the warehouse conversion. "This is a design in progress; I don't have time to work on it every day."

"You've started so many things and finished hardly any of them," Holmes's assistant shook her head. "The name's Anthea, by the way. I've checked everything; you're not bugged."

"Which is a huge relief to me as you might imagine, _Anthea_," Grace sighed. Sarcasm was silly. Taking a deep breath, she adopted a philosophical expression. "I suppose if you have to stay for a while, we may as well be civilised about it. Would you like some tea?" Grace was already moving towards the kitchen area.

_Area_, rather than actual _kitchen_, since there really was no _actual_ kitchen just yet. This flat was the result of a mad investment two years before when she had bought into a large warehouse conversion project on the South Bank in Barge House Street, spitting distance from the Thames and right across the river from the Temple Gardens. The National Theatre was literally down one end of the road and Shakespeare's Globe at the other. She was now the proud owner of half the top-floor of an old bonded warehouse, a large, three-story building, midway between Waterloo and Blackfriars bridges. It had emptied her savings, her current account and sent two of her prized first editions to auction, leaving her with little more than an enormous open space and a fabulous view, but at least it was _her_ space, with high ceilings and absolute freedom. Every scrap of money she had earned since, as well as the occasional bonus from the Law Archives, was spent in tackling another part of the apartment.

The first post-purchase cost had been to contract an architect to design the perfect dwelling that would encompass her preferences, her way of life and her books. Once that had been satisfactorily completed, every bit of spare cash went towards making the dream a reality.

The main bathroom had been the first thing; a glorious creation of dark grey slate, streaked with lines of rust and ochre, teamed with tiny gleaming aged copper tiles. All the porcelain amenities had been cast in dark shades of evening, with everything else in white glass and verdigrised copper fittings. Some of her friends hated it on sight, said it was too masculine, too industrial, but she loved it from the moment she'd seen the massive slabs of stone waiting to be cut. It was a cool and luxurious place, and she relished every square inch of it.

The bedroom had been next, a large, but odd-shaped room curved around one entire corner of the top floor. A window that wrapped around and over the space like a cave, but a cave of glass, through which you could see the stars. The hassle to get the necessary permissions and then to arrange removal of part of the building's roof and the installation of the replacement glass ceiling had cost her over fifteen thousand pounds. The bedroom walls were of a thunderous dark blue, with a thick carpet the colour of storm clouds. The sombre tones of the space were cleverly highlighted with flashes of brushed aluminium in the handles and light-fittings. Lying in bed always made Grace feel she was in the eye of a storm and she slept in the utter peace of that silence.

She had run out of money at that point, living a building-site and having to endure six-months of boiled eggs or beans-on-toast before she could pull sufficient cash together to pay for the materials and workmanship of her book room.

Although to call it a _room_ was perhaps a misnomer. A double-height, circular hub, built in the centre of the apartment with a glazed oculus in the roof, illuminating a grand chamber made entirely out of bookshelves, with an archway opening into every living space. A slender steel ladder hung on a rail which circumferenced the room just above the arches. The rest of the flat would be built around the curved bookshelves, already half-filled with her own private collection. Furnished as her study, an antique, leather-topped oak desk took a big chunk of floor-space, an elegant and deep-buttoned dark red leather _chaise-longue_ waited in the opposite half of the room. This was the heart of her flat and she came here to work, to read and to think, finding the atmosphere intrinsically creative and restorative.

An expensive-looking black computer-monitor and wireless keyboard stood in central splendour on the desk, the computer itself taking up the space of inside several drawers on the right-hand side, although the modification had been done so well, the average visitor would never know a powerful computer was hidden inside the desk itself. Three books lived on the desk and nowhere else: the Oxford English Reference dictionary, Roget's Thesaurus and the complete works of Shakespeare. Though each of the copies were old and more than a little battered, Grace was comforted by their nearness. They had been books people had given her at meaningful moments in her life and she still used them regularly.

In the months since she had finished her book room, there had been sufficient money available to design and order a bespoke kitchen and relevant appliances, but cash ran out before she had time to pay contractors to install any of it. Large, polythene-wrapped packages stood gathering dust in the designated space. The only thing she had as a kitchen was an old table with an electrical outlet hanging from the ceiling attached to which was an electric kettle, a toaster and a single hotplate. A tiny bar-fridge stood against the wall next to an old sink with a tap for cold water, all very basic; the only hot water in the apartment was in the bathroom.

The other things she was waiting to finish was the main living space, the dining area and the spare bedroom. Grace had put together a rough but functioning second bedroom when an old friend from Cambridge had stayed with her several months before, but it was fairly basic. There was a bed, a bureau and a rack for hanging stuff, and that was pretty much that. There was a new stockpile of cash in her bank now of around eighteen grand; it would get the kitchen, laundry and drying terrace finished, and maybe even enable her to make a start on the living area. At the moment, however, everything was still a bit rough.

And now Holmes had landed her with _call-me-Anthea_. Well, the woman would just have to lump it if she didn't like it.

"Actually," the very attractive brunette relaxed her shoulders. "I would kill for a cup of tea; the boss has had me on the go since dawn and my feet are complaining," she added.

"Then go and grab a seat in the ... lounge, and I'll bring it in and we can discuss how this situation is going to work," Grace filled the kettle and dug out the teapot from one of the many boxes which comprised her kitchen.

In reality, the lounge was no more than chalked lines across wide wooden floorboards giving an approximation of eventual dimensions. Within the outline were two disreputable armchairs, an offcut piece of plywood across two piles of old Yellow Pages for a coffee table and a wobbly standard lamp rescued from a skip.

But the china was Minton and the tea was Earl Grey.

Leaning back in her chair, sipping from her cup, Grace fixed the interloper with an analytical gaze. "Am I allowed to go out?" she said. "I have a date tonight."

Anthea shrugged and looked pained. "Probably not a good idea," she said. "We could stay in and start putting your kitchen together, if you like?"

"I'd rather go and have dinner with a very nice man in a very good restaurant," Grace was not about to surrender quite so easily.

Anthea sighed. "Robert Allan has already been given your apologies and thinks you are now halfway to Madrid," she said brightly. "We could start on your kitchen and then order a takeaway," she added, picking up her Nokia and searching the screen. "There's a really good Mexican place not far from here."

Grace wasn't sure whether to feel annoyed or amused. "You any good with power tools?" she asked warily.

"I am a _demon_ with a Black and Decker," Anthea grinned. "How about we see what we can accomplish and then get some Mexican and a bottle of tequila?"

It was hard not to be infected by such enthusiasm, especially if any alternative was on the moot side and Grace shook her head, smiling. "You know how to show a girl a good time," she laughed. "Okay, call-me-Anthea," she said. "It's far too early for dinner, so what say we change into something more comfortable and you try and convince me you know one end of a lithium driver from the other?"

Clinking her cup carefully to Grace's, Holmes' assistant nodded. "Sounds like a plan," she smiled, looking around the place assessingly. "What are you going to do in here?"

Grace had the blueprint of the design etched on her brain and could see the finished room in front of her eyes. She grinned. "Internal walls with windows in them," she said. "Lots of light going through into the rest of the flat ... you want to see the architect's plans ..?"

Over and hour and a second pot of tea later, Anthea sat back looking impressed. Grace still wasn't sure if this was a genuine expression or simply something she was assuming as part of her babysitting role, but their discussion had been interesting.

"You should have these blueprints framed," she said, waving a finger at the plans laid out across the makeshift coffee table. "Hang them somewhere very visible," she added. "They're brilliant."

Grace stood. "I think it's time I introduced you to two of my friends," she said. "You brought jeans with you?"

A quizzical look on her face, Anthea nodded.

"My friends, power drill and orbital sander will be in the kitchen when you're ready," Grace smiled, heading into her bedroom to dig out her oldest work-pants and a t-shirt. Things were about to get dirty.

###

It was already dark outside, although the City lights never really dimmed that much and the view had gradually changed from the bright river front, to the dusky glow of evening, before the true dark and night-lights of London.

Anthea had at least one broken nail, while Grace had a bruised shin, but the difference they had managed to accomplish in a few hours of solid work was remarkable. Instead of dusty, plastic-swathed bundles, there was now a great deal more clear space since all the kitchen base-units had been assembled and placed approximately in situ. Even the pre-cut dark-green granite bench tops had been wrangled into position, accounting for the broken nail and the banged leg; but they were all up where they were meant to be.

It was astonishing. Grace knew she could never have done this by herself, and had never thought of asking Robert for his assistance, but that they had been able to do this between them was testimony to both the excellent quality of the fitted cabinetry and the determination of two people who had a reasonable idea of what needed to be done and how to do it. Of course, the entire thing would have to be properly fixed in place by the experts who had the ability to gets things down to millimetres, and for the electrician and gas-installer and plumber to do the necessary with the utilities, but it already looked like a kitchen was supposed to look.

Unable to take her eyes off any of it, Grace stood in the middle beside the central island and hugged her arms around herself. "I'm a little in shock," she murmured, as Anthea returned from the bathroom. "I can't believe we just did this."

"Well, you've got about fifteen minutes to get over it and get cleaned up," she said. "Dinner's on its way."

"I don't have any tequila in the place," Grace looked awkward. "I'll have to nip out and get some."

"Already organised," Anthea grinned widely. "And all courtesy of Mr Holmes and all we need to do is drink the stuff."

"I don't have much ice, either," Grace felt embarrassed. Her little fridge was not really up to a lot of catering.

"When I say that everything is organised," Anthea looked forbearing. "I really do mean _everything_," she lifted her eyebrows. "Now are you going to have first crack at that decadent cavern of extravagance and luxury you call a bathroom, or am I?"

Laughing, Grace felt the least she could do was offer her guest dibs on the shower. "You go first," she said, "and I'll get your bed ready so we don't have to think about it later; I've a feeling I shall be sleeping very well tonight."

The young man with a cardboard box containing a large bag of crushed ice; a really good bottle of golden tequila, together with limes and other clinking things, arrived barely minutes ahead of the second young man who brought two large plastic bags full of spicy delights.

"There is no way we're going to get through all of this, you realise," Grace brought out plates, quietly thrilled with the realisation she'd soon be able to use the new dishwasher that had stood idle for over three months.

Rinsing out a large glass jug, Anthea was in the process of measuring appropriate amounts of tequila, triple-sec and fresh-squeezed lime juice, stirring the entire concoction with a large wooden spoon which she then licked. "Just checking," she laughed at Grace's amused face.

Whoever said that hunger makes the best sauce wasn't wrong. Despite the quantity of food, a very substantial dent was established, washed down by several large glasses of the tequila cocktail within a relatively short space of time.

It was only when she was more or less sated, that Grace brought the conversation around to the reality of the situation.

"You do this a lot?" she asked. "Babysitting problems like me?"

Leaning back and taking another sip of her drink, Anthea shook her head. "This is only the second time he's asked me to do it," she said, not bothering to explain _he_.

"What did he tell you about me?" Grace dipped a corn chip in the guacamole and crunched. "Did he say anything?"

"Only that you might be important in helping solve a mystery," she said, sitting up and helping herself to a forkful of rice. "And that ..."

"What?" Grace turned to the brunette. "And that ... _what?_"

"Squinting in thought, Anthea lifted her eyebrows momentarily. "And that you were a bit of a mystery in your own right and for me to make friends."

"Holmes told you to make friends with me?" Grace felt she ought to be shocked or at least a little angry, but she wasn't, not really. She had half expected something along these lines. "Is that his usual style?"

"Depends," Anthea poured them both some more of the cocktail. "Depends on what he's trying to achieve."

"And what is he trying to achieve in this instance?" Grace swirled her drink, watching the slices of lime circle the glass.

"There's definitely a security problem and he wants you safe," Anthea bit her lower lip. "But as to the other, I'm really not sure," she said. "You're not the love child of some foreign oligarch, by any chance?"

Leaning her head back against the chair, Grace laughed, genuinely tickled. "Not that I know of," she admitted. "And you making friends with me is supposed to do what ... get me to spill the beans?"

"Usually," Anthea looked sadly at the empty jug. "I think we need more alcohol."

"I don' need alcohol to answer questions," Grace realised she'd slurred a word. "No more for me; I shall probably sleep in with a headache in any case," she added.

"Such a lightweight," Anthea grinned. "Go to bed and I'll have everything cleaned up in the morning for you."

Grace smiled happily. "I wish I had more friends like you, in that case," she acknowledged. "You know where everything is now, probably better than I do," she paused. "Make yourself at home," Grace stood, swaying slightly. Whatever Anthea was here for, she didn't really care much about it tonight. Tonight, she had the beginnings of a real kitchen and she was happy. After cleaning her teeth, she crawled into bed and was asleep in less than a minute.

###

And she dreamed

She dreamed she was standing in the bow of an old sailing ship in the middle of the sea; she could hear the creaking of the rigging and feel the sway of the deck shifting beneath her feet as the dark blue waves chopped all around the hull. The day was waning into darkness, not evening, but a storm, and the colour of the ocean was the colour of the angry sky. Clouds rushed across the sky in great scads of grey smoke. The entire scene was one of haste: haste to leave the wild water, haste to escape, haste to seek shelter.

But there was nowhere to run, the storm was almost upon the ship, and there was no shelter in sight.

And then there was. Out of the gloomy and bruised storm clouds, a sudden island, a place of tall, dark trees; sharp mountains and barren, rocky coves. Just as the first spear of white lightening slashed down through to the ocean's surface, the ship coasted easily into the largest cove, coming to a slow rest in a gentle lagoon where everything was golden sunlight and soft sea-breezes.

Grace slept, a smile on her lips.

###

Her head was thumping as she woke and tried to move, the cool smoothness of the pillow rough against her face when she opened her eyes to the late morning sunlight pouring through the ceiling of her bedroom. She had left the blinds open last night and closed her eyes quickly as they squinted in the shock of light.

Grace rolled onto her back, blinking. Her face felt dry, her hair was all over the place and her mouth tasted of tequila. She was thirsty and could probably use a couple of aspirin. Her head was really thumping; the sensation of noise almost a tangible thing.

Sitting up slowly in bed, rubbing her face with both hands, Grace realised the banging wasn't only inside her head, but sounded as if it were coming from elsewhere in the flat. Dragging on an old brocade robe of indeterminate origins, she stepped outside her room and headed for the din.

It was coming from the kitchen.

There was an awful _lot_ of it coming from the kitchen, as she stopped, rendered speechless by the scene which greeted her.

"About time, Ms Lightweight," Anthea turned and found a mug, pouring a quantity of black, scented coffee that made the whole effort of getting up worthwhile. Grace was certain her usual coffee didn't smell this good.

Still uncertain what to say, or even if anything should be said in case she frightened off the small crew of tradespeople-fairies currently working minor magic in the kitchen.

And it actually _was_ a kitchen.

All the cabinets were in their correct places, secured and fixed, the mottled green granite tops likewise secured and temporarily covered with thick cardboard.

There was a man on his back beneath the brand new sink unit, doing something creative with copper piping; another man was on a stepladder, threading thick white electrical cable down the back of the wall units; since when did she have wall units? Or walls? The newly emplaced gas hob and electric oven were the focus of a woman in overalls bearing the name of a major gas appliance manufacturer, who seemed to be checking the level of the hob and testing gas-flow.

There were _walls_, there were _appliances_ and there were things that _worked_. This was most bizarre. She turned back to Anthea and lifted both hands, almost spilling the coffee.

"Told you I would have everything cleaned up for you in the morning," she laughed, leaning back against one of the new partitions and grinning delightedly.

"I thought you meant the dishes," Grace watched, fascinated by the sheer quantity of expertise currently being exhibited. "I'm somewhat stunned."

"Excellent," Anthea seemed satisfied. "Stunned means you're unlikely to be problematic later."

"What's happening later?" Grace watched the plumber do something ingenious with a compact gas-torch.

"You're cooking dinner," Anthea laughed.

"Without ingredients?" Grace looked deeply sceptical.

Moving aside, Anthea waved at the box of goodies behind her. "All yours," she was unbearably smug.

A wide smile settling across her face, Grace suddenly realised that Anthea had done exactly as Holmes had directed. It was a disconcerting comprehension and her smile faded.

"What?" Anthea saw the change. "What's the matter?"

"Is this you making friends?" Grace returned her mug on the bench top. "You're very good at it."

The brunette turned to watch the workers for a few moments. "It was," she said slowly. "And now it isn't," she turned back to meet Grace's eyes. "Do you believe me?"

"Maybe," it was difficult to say more. "I'm going in the shower."

It was only when Grace was in the bathroom that she realised the spare box of suppressants she always kept in the cabinet was, in fact, empty. She'd been so busy this last week with the Ripoll transcript, she'd entirely forgotten to get a fresh supply. Meaning to have picked up another box yesterday, events had overtaken her. Not that it was a big deal; she had the initial prescription from a dependable doctor whom she had trusted with her privacy for quite some time now. It wasn't even a problem getting them anymore, although the ones she preferred were from Denmark and a little more costly than the local stuff. Grace valued her privacy and anonymity and, in her current role, it was something she had absolutely no intention of losing.

Dressing in clean jeans and a faded old t-shirt, she returned to the kitchen where the worker-elves had temporarily departed. "I have to go to the chemist's," she said. "I need to pick up a prescription."

"I'll have someone collect it for you," Anthea held out her hand for the script, but Grace had no intention of letting anyone else in on this particular bit of knowledge; least of all someone like Mycroft Holmes.

"I prefer to do this myself, thank you," she smiled faintly. "The one I go to isn't far. You can come with me if you're that paranoid."

Anthea frowned, shaking her head slowly. "You don't understand," she said, leading Grace away from the kitchen; she had no wish for their conversation to be overheard. "You can't leave this place; not for something like that, at least."

"You mean I'm effectively a prisoner in my own flat?" Grace felt her anger begin to resurface.

"Please?" Anthea touched her elbow. "I know it's all a bit draconian, but there's a genuine reason for it, I promise. If the medication is urgent, please let me have someone pick it up for you."

Waiting until the wash of outrage faded, Grace heaved a short breath. "I need these pills, but I don't want anyone else involved with them," she said. "I suppose if I'm not actually able to go anywhere, I can do without them for a few days ..." Grace paused, thinking. "But if you really _are_ going to be a friend, then you're going to have to answer me one very personal question."

Anthea met her gaze, a wary light in her eyes. "Okay," she nodded. "Ask me."

Taking another deep breath, Grace held it for a second. "Are you an Alpha?"

The abrupt widening of the brunette's eyes was as effective as a polygraph. She inhaled to speak, but stopped and paused as the question sank in. There was only one reason a woman would ask if someone staying in her house was an Alpha. The fact that Grace had admitted to needing prescription medication merely confirmed it.

Nodding in sudden understanding, Anthea smiled gently. "I am a Beta," she said, lifting out a hand but not touching. "All Mr Holmes' staff are Betas, he won't have Omegas or Alphas on staff; considers them a liability," she added. "I can get the medication for you within thirty minutes."

Grace shook her head. "The dispensing chemist is a friend of mine and at my request has maintained a special, off-the-books, supply for a long time," she said. "I'm not going to get him into trouble because of me, and I don't want anyone else to know about this," she paused meaningfully. "Do you understand how important this is to me?"

Anthea held her breath again for a few seconds as insight arrived. Grace Chandler was an unregistered Omega. The fact wasn't in her medical files or anywhere else; nobody knew about it except the chemist and probably some dim and distant GP out in the wilds. It wasn't an illegal state of affairs, but it was odd. "Why?" she asked.

Grace leaned back against the wall, a faintly embittered cast to her face. "Do you have _any_ idea how many Alphas there are in the law industry?" she asked. "On _both_ sides of the legal fence? How many Alpha barristers and judges and police there are, not to mention the villains themselves?" Grace sighed. "They're _everywhere_. Can you even begin to imagine the situation I'd be in if I wasn't on some very good suppressants? If I didn't keep my status as secret as the confessional?"

"You shouldn't have told me," Anthea said. "I can't promise to keep your confidence."

"You didn't give me much of a choice," Grace was mildly indignant. "If I told you about the medication and the chemist, you'd have known. If I hadn't said anything and let nature take its course, you'd eventually have known. If I forced the issue and made a fuss, you'd have worked it out," she shrugged. "What other choice did you give me?"

It was true.

"How long do you need to be ... _away_ from people?" Anthea realised there wasn't any way to ask the question without being unbelievably crass. It was one of the by-products of the genetic mutation, fortunate or unfortunate depending upon one's perspective. Omegas experienced an intimidating fertility cycle considered disruptive by some and bloody inconvenient by almost everyone else, including themselves. For a few days every month, the Omega endured something schoolboys around the world sniggeringly called a _heat_, as if it were more pornography than biology. In the male, it resulted in a hiked libido which eventually synched with their partner's own cycle, while the female Omega became exceptionally fertile just prior to ovulation. It was nature's way of ensuring the mutation continued, but the big pharmas made a killing out of expensive suppressants that reduced the signs and symptoms in both genders. Unsuppressed, the Omega's cycle triggered an automatic and often acute physiologic response in any Alpha who got too close. To most Alphas, such an inadvertent reaction was an embarrassing and unwelcome event and unpartnered Alphas in particular, had a very difficult time of it.

"Before the pheromones fade and I get back to normal, you mean?" Grace exhaled gustily. "Usually a couple of days, give or take," she said. "Not that a Beta would be able to detect them, but it's not called a _heat_ for nothing," she added matter-of-factly. "I get quite warm in the middle of it all," she sounded pragmatic. "Any Alpha within twenty feet of me is almost certain to take notice," Grace raked fingers through her sleek blonde bob. "And I probably would let them," she added quietly. "It's not something I'm particularly happy about, and it's one of the reasons most of us say nothing about it to anyone unless we're considering a romantic relationship."

"And the reason you use good-quality suppressants in your job with all those Alphas around," Anthea nodded in understanding. "But if you're going to stay in your flat for the next few days, does it matter? I can still get you a refill of whatever it is you use, no questions asked."

"Can you do that?" Grace was impressed, despite herself. "I use _Xarione_," she said. "My friendly chemist imports it for me."

"Not a problem," Anthea picked up her phone about to make a call, when Grace stopped her.

"Will Holmes find out?"

Anthea looked thoughtful. "If he asks, I'll have to tell him."

"Then leave it," Grace shook her head. "I'd rather nobody knew about this. My privacy is very important to me; I don't want this getting out."

"If he asks, I'll have no choice," Anthea sounded troubled.

"Why would he have any reason to ask?" Grace was speculative. "If I'm not going anywhere and this whole security thing is going to be over in a few days anyway, why would he have need to ask about anything?"

"True," Anthea pursed her mouth. "In which case, let's hope there's no reason for you to leave the apartment or for my boss to ask personal questions, though please say if you change your mind and want me to get them for you, okay?"

Not entirely happy with the situation, but unwilling to risk her hard won privacy, Grace sighed and nodded. This wretched situation with Rafe Erwood was nothing at all to do with her and yet she was the one having to compromise her behaviour.

"This really is in your best interests, you know," Anthea shrugged, clearly reading her mind. "Mr Holmes was very specific that you should be looked after."

"Really?" Grace was puzzled. "Any particular reason why?"

"Only that he thinks you may know something without realising you know something," Anthea shrugged again. "He's a brilliant man and I've learned not to question his arrangements because he's inevitably right in whatever he does," she smiled. "It's a bit spooky at times, actually."

Grace looked down at her hands, contemplating her situation. It was what it was.

But at least she had a kitchen now. The banging and thumping had at least stopped. "Have they finished, do you think?" she asked. "It's gone very quiet in there."

"I suggest a quick _recce_," Anthea walked around the newly erected walls and stared. Grace followed and did exactly the same.

_Oh_.

"Do you think it all works?" Grace traced fingertips across the shining stone work bench towards the polished steel gas hob. There was not a hint of dust or grime anywhere. The entire place _gleamed_. But did it work?

"Can you cook?" Anthea grinned.

###

She was in her circular study, checking over the trade news for any new document auctions on the horizon, when an email popped into her work account. Flicking over to it in case it was important, Grace held her breath and read it twice to be sure she'd got it right.

The current owner of the Ripoll Transcript was interested in making a deal off the books, but it had to be fast and it had to be cash.

They wanted twenty grand by the end of the day.

_I can't get twenty thousand pounds by close of business_, Grace typed. _An organisation such as the Law Archives doesn't operate on a cash basis. Will you take a cheque?_

No cheque; cash only by tonight or the document went on flight BA0283 to the USA.

Thinking desperately, Grace realised she could get her hands on some of the cash; not all, but it might be enough. _I can get you eighteen thousand tonight and put the other two directly in your account tomorrow or the following day if you leave me your bank details_, she said, crossing the fingers of both hands that it would be enough. There was a long silence at the other end.

_Okay, but cash by seven-thirty tonight. Meet me on the Embankment by Cleopatra's Needle with the money_, it was the last email response.

She had to have that document. She had tracked it for over a year and then waited to buy it, but it had been snatched away. Now there was another chance and however difficult, she _had_ to have it. Anthea would understand; she might even help.

About to go into the lounge where her bodyguard had been watching an old black-and-white film, Grace met her coming out. Anthea's face was hard, unsmiling as ended a call.

"There's been another death," she said sourly. "This time it was the manager of a local Cambridge bookshop which Erwood frequented," she added. "All of this has something to do with the university, which makes you the next probable target," Anthea pressed a fast-dial key and muttered something into the phone. "I'm arranging additional security for the building tonight."

_Shit_. Grace realised that in a matter of minutes, there would be no chance for her to get out and go to the ATM to withdraw the cash. If she was going to do this, she had to go _now_.

"That makes sense," she tried to sound relaxed. "I'm just going to finish off my work in here and then I'll get dinner ready," she smiled. "Won't be long."

"I'm double-locking the front door," Anthea stalked into the other room with a determined expression on her face.

In the next instant, Grace had grabbed her bag and headed into her bedroom. Sliding a dark jacket around her shoulders, she quietly unbolted the section of the wrap-around window that led onto the roof terrace and around to the fire-escape. In only seconds, she had sprinted down the sections of steel ladders and was only feet above the road at the far side of the building. Sliding herself over the edge, she held on with her fingers and allowed her body to hang for a moment. She let go and ... dropped.

About three feet.

Hitting the road on her toes, Grace knew exactly how far it was to the nearest NatWest ATM and she took off around the front of the wharves. She could be there in less than two minutes.

Fortunately, there was neither a crowd nor a queue at this time. Looking around to ensure she wasn't being watched, Grace walked up to the machine and opened her account, typing in the amount of five-thousand pounds. No ATM would give more than that in one go, so she'd have to make four withdrawals to get all eighteen grand out. Fortunately, she'd previously arranged for a maximum of twenty-thousand per day withdrawal for when she was buying stuff for the flat.

In less than five minutes, she had a very fat pile of £50 notes in her hand. Stuffing them deep into a pocket, she looked around for a cab. As always when you wanted one in a hurry, there were never any to be found.

If she walked quickly, she could be there in less than thirty minutes. Grace checked her watch; it was only just after six. Plenty of time in that case. Checking over her shoulder in case Anthea had somehow managed to trail her, she took a deep breath and headed for Waterloo Bridge.

###

Mycroft Holmes ended the call with a particular expression of dissatisfaction on his face. He couldn't fault Anthea's handling of the situation; she couldn't ride herd on the woman every second, although he could have wished his assistant had requested additional support before the realisation that Grace Chandler not only could, but actually _had_ made a break for freedom.

Nor could Anthea offer any immediate reason for the woman's escape bid, until she entered Chandler's study and looked at the recent emails still visible on her computer.

"Based on her last emails, she's meeting someone at the Obolisque at seven-thirty tonight to buy something called the Ripoll Transcript," Anthea felt thwarted that Grace had managed to evade her custody like this. The only slight mitigation was that this particular document, Anthea looked again at the name, seemed fairly important: it must be for her charge to leave the safety of the apartment even after being told she might be the next target.

And they knew where to start looking; without a boat, there were only two ways to get to that section of the Embankment from South Bank and she had requested CCTV surveillance on both routes. It would be only minutes, perhaps even seconds, and Grace Chandler would be pinpointed and brought back into safety.

As expected, within moments the blonde woman had been spotted and a car sent to intercept her.

###

Walking quickly, but not so fast as to attract undue attention, Grace kept her head down as she crossed Waterloo Bridge, turning to her right and heading down some stone steps in order to achieve the Victoria Embankment with its avenue of Plane trees. Heading to her left, she strode out along the pedestrian walkway below the level of the road; the only other people she saw were either tourists out to make the most of a late sunny afternoon, or some locals using one of Boris's free bikes to avoid the traffic.

Grace checked her watch. It was almost quarter to seven; she had another forty-five minutes to kill. Realising that Anthea would have missed her by now, she wondered how long it would take for the woman to check on her open email account. Grace had no desire for her babysitter to get into trouble, but she would probably never get another chance at the Transcript. Whatever the fallout from this, if she came away with the Ripoll document in her hands, it would have been worth it.

Finding a shaded part of the low stone wall on the river side of the Embankment walkway, Grace tucked herself away and started counting the minutes, the solid wad of banknotes heavy in her jacket pocket. Imagining what kind of presentation format she'd use when the document was finally hers to display, she found time was passing faster than she imagined. The next time she checked the radium dial of her watch, it was already seven-fifteen. Time for her to make a move. The owner of the Transcript might be already there and waiting.

Standing, about to head along to the stone steps on this side of the needle, Grace heard quiet footsteps and a familiar voice.

"Well, that was a damn silly thing to go and do," Anthea walked over, her hands in her coat pockets. "Do you have _any_ idea what kind of a fuss your little escapade has caused?" the brunette sounded decidedly unimpressed.

"Sorry," Grace lifted both hands in apology. "But you have no idea just how important this thing is; I've been chasing it for more than a year and I may never get another opportunity to buy it for the collection."

"And you don't think it even slightly remarkable that this paper was offered to you at the same moment that you became the next potential target of whoever killed Erwood?" Anthea was looking around, checking the faces and body-language of even the most distant tourists.

Grace paused in thought. Actually, no, she hadn't made any such a connection. Probably all foolishness, in any case. How would anyone except the document's owner know how to contact her, know her private email address?

With the same telepathy displayed by her boss, Anthea frowned, her right hand clutching something heavy in the pocket of her coat. "Of course these people can find out how to get to you," she muttered, a new anxiety creasing her forehead. "It's why they're so bloody dangerous," she looked around, hunting for potential aggressors. Anthea paused as she observed two men in jeans and hoodies heading their way. There was something not right about them ...

It was a perfectly warm evening and yet their hoods were up, concealing their faces.

"Quick!" Anthea grabbed Grace's wrist, dragging her towards the steps leading up to street-level. "To the car, fast!"

Almost immediately, there was a series of odd sounds which, though she had never heard them in real life before, Grace knew were shots from a silenced pistol. By the number of shots, probably two pistols. The hooded men were trying to kill them.

Her heart pounding in her throat, she crouched down, scurrying towards the long stone steps at the base of the obolisque, not stopping to look back until she had reached the cover of one of the thick granite pillars beneath one of the sphinxes. The sound of shots still echoed around the stone pathway, but they were fewer now.

Daring to risk a quick look, Grace saw that one of them men was lying face-down on the stone walkway, while the other had disappeared from sight. Anthea was down on one knee, both arms outstretched, holding a pistol of her own. There was a stripe of red across the top of one sleeve. She had been hit.

"Jesus!" Grace was already on her way back down the steps before Anthea shook her head.

"The _car!_" she shouted, racing up the steps towards the Embankment, grabbing at Grace's nearest arm as she did, reaching the top of the steps and the stationery black Jaguar in only seconds. "_Go!_" she directed the driver as they piled into the back seat.

Right next to Mycroft Holmes who regarded them both with an expression of black wrath, even as the car swerved rapidly away from the kerb, heading back towards Waterloo Bridge.

"What on earth possessed you?" the demand was icy cold as he stared at Grace.

Meeting his eyes for a second, she caught the full blast of his anger before she deliberately turned back to Anthea who was staring out of the window, probably in case the second attacker reappeared. There was a dark, saturated patch on her upper right arm.

"Slip your arm out," she instructed, lifting the jacket carefully. "You may need stitches; let me see."

"It's only superficial," Anthea's eyes maintained their watchful alert.

"She's hurt, she needs to have this looked at by a doctor," Grace turned back to Holmes. "I had no intention of getting anyone hurt," she defended herself. "Nobody was supposed to know where I had gone."

"Except the very people who wanted you captured or dead," Holmes was acidic in his anger. "For a supposedly intelligent individual, you've acted with unconscionable _stupidity_," he snarled. "You almost lost your own life and that of my very valuable assistant," he forced his eyes to the handle of the umbrella clasped between tensed fingers, his mouth a thin line of fury. "What the bloody hell do you think I had you confined to your apartment for in the _first_ place? _Christ above_, woman!"

The dark red stain on Anthea's arm made her feel awful. Despite the fact that her incarceration had been imposed, Grace supposed she hadn't really believed it was necessary before now.

"I'm so very sorry," she said as Anthea finally turned away from the window, a wash of heat colouring her cheeks as she caught the brunette's gaze. "Are you sure you don't need a hospital?"

"As soon as we have conveyed Doctor Chandler back to her apartment, you shall go to the clinic," Holmes advised his employee, returning his phone in an inner pocket. "Arrangements have been made for replacements to remain in Barge House street for as long as it takes us to sweep up this vexing operation," his sigh was suggestive of long-suffering nobility.

Grace felt her head spin, a strange giddiness that might be shock, she realised, her face still warm from her shame at someone getting hurt because of her. She was silent for the few remaining minutes of the journey.

Driving along Barge House street, the Jaguar slowed as it approached the old warehouse until the driver tapped his earpiece and held briefly held up two fingers before clenching his fist for all in the back to see. It was all clear and both replacements had reported in accordingly.

"I'm sorry," Grace met Anthea's eyes as she stepped out of the car. "Dragging you into my problem was a thoughtless thing to do, and I feel terrible you've been hurt as a result," she paused. "I still owe you a dinner in my new kitchen," she said, lifting her eyebrows. "If you are willing to trust my cooking?"

"Will there be tequila?"

"There could certainly be tequila," Grace, smiled as a wave of warm relief made her skin tingle. "Or whatever else you might prefer."

"Then I'll be in touch," Anthea grinned a little. "Don't bother about this," she nodded down to the slowly expanding red patch. "They always look worse than they are."

"When you have quite finished your gratuitous farewells, might I suggest that we remove ourselves from the possible temptation of snipers and _get the hell inside the building?_" Holmes growled the last few words, his fingers clamping around Grace's upper arm, virtually dragging her through the door.

"Later, then," she called, as Anthea climbed back into the car.

His fingers were too tight and his grasp was uncomfortable. As soon as they had moved within the foyer of the building, Grace pulled her arm free, a fierce look in her eyes. "I don't need to be bullied," she snapped.

"Apparently you do," Holmes's voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "There will be no more foolishness."

"And you are not my gaoler," Grace felt her face warm again, but this time with anger, as she stormed up the stairs to her front door, unlocking and throwing it open, too angry to care what the two waiting men decided to do. Come in, stay outside; she didn't much care, her newfound anger carrying her through the entire apartment to her bedroom. She marched in and slammed the door. Holmes could rot in hell for all she cared, throwing off her jacket and opening a window. She felt hot; her anger was clearly deeper than she imagined. Sucking down several deep breaths of cool air, Grace felt her temper abate somewhat, but _that man_ ...

Finally, her composure returned and she opened the door, heading to the kitchen. Few things could not be helped by a cup of tea. Getting the kettle going and sorting out tea cups, she went in search of Holmes.

She found him in the book room, sitting on the _chaise_, his hands resting on the handle of his umbrella, staring around at the tall curve of shelves and the clever way everything had been hung together in the centre of the flat.

"You have a virtuoso architect," he offered, quietly. "This is sensational."

His tone was so sincere, and the expression on his face so entirely without malice that she felt her annoyance thaw. The design really was amazing and Holmes's recognition of it put them on the same side of an agreement for once.

"It is, isn't it?" Grace sighed a little, her smile inevitable as she looked around the room. It was just as she had wanted it to be.

"I apologise for my earlier outburst," Holmes continued. "I am not usually so belligerent in my approach," he added. "But there is something about this situation which has had me on edge since yesterday morning."

"Do you know who is after me?" Grace took the seat behind the desk. For a moment it was as if she were interviewing him. Her mouth curved slightly at the image.

"I have a reasonably clear idea, " he nodded. "Orlov's masters sent him into Britain as a sleeper," he said. "The problem was, he went native; became more British than the British, in fact," Holmes relaxed back in the _chaise_. "Now that he's dead, I suspect the Russians believe he has left something incriminating behind, most likely something to do with his work at Cambridge, papers of something of that ilk."

"But then why would those men come after me?" Grace frowned. "I don't have any of Erwood's papers," she shook her head, her fingers tracing the spines of the books resting on the desktop. Grace was positive she had nothing in her possession that might be even remotely connected to her college days. The only link had been her name on the back of the program in his pocket when he died. _The playbill_ ...

"What play was it?" she wondered. "The program in his pocket with my name on?"

"_The Tempest_, at the Old Vic," Holmes sounded fatigued. "We checked everything very thoroughly," he said. "Neither you nor Erwood had anything to do with either the play or the theatre."

_Oh God_. _The books_.

"Would it have to be papers the Russians were looking for?" she asked, breathless as the idea exploded in her mind.

"Could be anything, but papers of some sort seem the most likely," Holmes rubbed a hand over his face, his usually saturnine good looks suddenly a little wearied. Until he caught the tone in her voice.

"What?" he said. "You've thought of something, what is it?"

Grace could almost feel the ridges of her fingertip as she stroked it against the spine of the thick book resting beside her computer monitor. One of three books she had been given, she had always treated this one with great reverence and affection.

_The Shakespeare_. It had been a gift, after all.

_A gift from Rafe Erwood._

A great wave of heat flooded her body as the knowledge became clear, she could feel her skin tingling with it. She lifted her eyes and met his.

And frowned.

Holmes was staring at her as if she had just grown a pair of antenna and turned green, his eyes widening even as she watched. It was almost as if she was turning into some sort of alien creature right in front of him and she smiled uncertainly, puzzled. The focus of his observation was becoming almost uncomfortable as she felt another wave of heat wash across her skin and she realised that the stress and shock of events had triggered her cycle. She hadn't been feeling hot because she was upset, but because she was going into ... oh, _no_ ...

She stood, abruptly, stepping back. "I have to go," almost stuttering in her haste. "I need to be alone, I need ..."

He had risen smoothly to his feet as well, his eyes fixed on hers, a light flush to his pale skin. The scent of his aftershave, a rich woody, musky trace that caught at her awareness and tantalised. It was the most delectable fragrance, it called to her to come closer, to taste, to experience a far more intimate awareness of it. There were only a few feet between them in the room.

And suddenly, Grace realised why Holmes employed only Beta staff, why he would tolerate no Omegas or Alphas in his department, why he considered them a liability.

Mycroft Holmes was an Alpha.

An unpartnered Alpha currently standing right beside an unpartnered Omega already in the first throes of the heat phase. The knowledge alone made her head spin even more than before; she had never been in such a precarious situation in her life.

"I have to go," she whispered, her words fading almost before they were said.

His eyes were darker now; an autonomous response that had him moving towards the desk, still studying her. "You have thought of something to do with Erwood," his words were spoken more slowly than usual, as if there was a struggle to get them out. "What was it?"

Swallowing hard and trying to breathe any air that wasn't full of Alpha, Grace forced herself to think clearly. Her fingers caressed the dark blue leather cover of the book on her desk. "This was his," she said, tapping the hard cover. "He made a gift of it to me when I completed my PhD," she added. "I thought it was nothing more than a congratulations present."

Blinking very deliberately, Holmes lowered his gaze to the heavy tome lying on the desk. _The Complete Works of Shakespeare_ was about as British as it was possible for any writer to be.

"No wonder his masters believed he had gone native," Holmes picked up the book in careful hands, opening the volume and allowing a band of the smooth pages to slide across his fingertips. He returned his eyes to hers. "I will need to take this away for examination," he said, softly.

"That's probably a very good idea," Grace was breathing through her mouth as far as she could; anything to avoid drowning in the invisible whirlpool that was Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps she could make it to her bedroom now while he was thinking about the book and what might be inside it. She stepped away from the desk only to realise that Holmes had anticipated her move and was already standing by the archway, his focus unwavering, his eyes, more black now, than blue.

He knew he should take the book and go; leave this place and this woman to the care of his people. His experts in weapons and killing. He should not stand here, wallowing in the most incredible perfume he had ever encountered, a perfume that had already wrapped itself around his thoughts and his senses. He was drunk with it; blind and dumb and utterly overwhelmed with the unspeakable _desire_ for it, to be _closer_ to it. And Grace Chandler was simply standing there, waiting for him to move, to take the one last step.

Mycroft Holmes felt his body sway a little as he noted her unfocused eyes, the warm blush to her cheeks, the soft swelling of her lips. It was only a matter of inches ...

Two shots rang out in quick succession. Not the discreetly silenced versions of earlier, down by the Embankment, but violent explosions of gunfire. They sounded horrifyingly close.

Jerking himself upright, he blinked rapidly as the situation became clear. "Go to your room and lock the door," he directed in a low, urgent voice. "Put something in front of it and if anyone tries to break through, get out and go down the fire escape as you did before," he was unsmiling and serious. "_Go_."

Looking into his grave face, Grace felt, for the first time, a feeling of camaraderie. It warmed her like a sudden taste of brandy. She smiled faintly. "Take care," she said, heading back towards her bedroom. There was no lock on the door she could use, but there was a tall-backed wooden chair which she managed to wedge solidly beneath the handle, its feet digging deep into the heavy pile of the carpet.

Leaning against the wall, Grace took several deep breaths, holding her face in her hands, feeling a dampness on her skin for which she had no explanation.

Two more shots rang out, and then another. There were several shouts and the banging of what must have been the front door. Another shout, another shot ... and everything fell silent.

Grace held her breath, stepping away from the door, waiting for footsteps. The window was open, but if she had to make a run for it, there would be very little time to get clear. She found herself rising onto her toes, preparing for flight.

"_Grace?_ It's all clear. My people have them," Mycroft Holmes stood on the other side of the closed door. She was safe.

"Is it all over?" she asked, her throat dry and husky. "Is it done?"

"It's done. We know these people and we know who controls them. I have already arranged for the principals to be ... collected."

Feeling a shudder of relief unwind through her body, Grace pulled the chair away from the door, leaning against it and breathing hard. She knew he was right on the other side; his scent already pervasive and intoxicating.

"Are you going to open the door?" his voice was uncertain; subdued, as if a great measure of control was involved.

"I don't think I should, do you?" she spoke against the smooth wood, her eyes closed, her heart beating so hard that she knew for sure he must be able to hear it.

There was a long pause. "No. I don't think you should," he agreed, finally. "I'll leave my people here until I am certain any possible threat is over," he added. "Goodbye, Doctor Chandler."

He had made it three paces away before he heard the door click open. With a rough inhale, he paused, looking down at the shiny toe of his shoe.

"Are you really going?" Grace stood in the doorway of her bedroom as he turned, her face glowing and her eyes extraordinarily bright. The space between them was redolent with her fragrance and he knew he was lost.

His eyes narrowed as he walked back, taking in the way her body anticipated his presence, his height; the way she instinctively curved towards him. Everything about Grace Chandler was summoning him, persuading him to stay.

As she looked up into a pair of blue eyes hooded now, and as dark as the storm clouds of her dream, Grace wanted nothing more than to feel his cool fingers smoothing down her overheated flesh, to have him draw her tight against him; for his kisses to free her from any fading notion of sanity.

Sliding the fingers of his right hand beneath the soft curve of her hair, he pulled her unresisting body against him, desire roaring in his ears.

"Omega," he whispered, his lips brushing hers.

"Alpha," she acknowledged, her hands resting against the solid plane of his chest as she lifted her face.

Their lips met softly at first, more a signal of intent than anything more passionate, but Holmes felt the frayed remnants of his control vanish like morning mist in the hot sun as his arms slipped around her body and he drew her even closer. Her soft, shocked moan of need driving all thoughts of restraint from his mind.

Running his lips down the side of her neck, his hands were already prising open the buttons of her top, his eager, hungry mouth seeking the hidden places where her perfume was rich and potent.

Lying in his arms, Grace knew that she wanted this, wanted whatever what about to happen and that she would give this man whatever was in her power to give him. She was _Omega_ and this was her strength. "_Yes_," she groaned, feeling the firestorm blaze between them.

And then, inexplicably, she was alone and he was standing several feet away, his face flushed and strained with a devastating want.

"Not this way," he straightened his shoulders slowly, agonisingly, his breathing forced and harsh. "Not by accident, like savages."

Grace felt herself grow dizzy, but she realised she was smiling. Whatever happened here and now, she knew she had reached beyond the cool façade into the heart of the man. She knew when he thought of her, and he _would_ think of her, that he would remember this.

"Run away then, _Alpha_," she smiled again before stepping back into her bedroom and closing the door as the heat rose around her and she burned with possibility.


	2. Chapter 2 An Unconventional Relationship

**Conspicuous Resistance**

_A Realisation – Three Invitations – Ikon – To Slay a Dragon – Dinner with the Devil – Uninvited Guests._

#

#

"How odd," he didn't sound the least puzzled. "I had no idea the gentleman in question had any diplomatic immunity whatsoever," he added. "Are you quite sure?"

Those final four words said it all.

The man on the other end of the phone wasn't entirely as stupid as several of his peers might have suggested. "Actually, now you come to mention it," he paused. "There may be some uncertainty regarding that point ... I'll look into it, shall I?"

"An excellent idea," Mycroft Holmes agreed. "Mr Bogrov should receive every courtesy to which his position entitles him."

"Ah ... of course. And when do you think our Russian guest should receive this ... courtesy?"

"As soon as possible," Holmes consulted the heavy silver Hunter tucked into his waistcoat. The two men on the Embankment yesterday had been confirmed through CCTV as Russian-paid enforcers. "This morning would be appropriate. It is unacceptable for foreign nationals to rampage through the heart of the Capital with handguns."

"And how respectful would you like us to be?" the man was being incredibly cautious.

Holmes approved of caution. "Oh, deeply respectful," he nodded to no-one in particular. "Flowers may be involved."

"I'll get onto it straight away, sir," the phone conversation ended as Holmes returned his Nokia to an inside pocket.

_The Russians would learn that death-dealing on the streets of London was a step too far from Moscow. Damage one of mine, lose one of yours._

Pressing the discreet intercom he wondered whose voice would answer.

"Yes sir?" Anthea, of course. Not even a bullet-wound was sufficient to keep her out of action.

"I thought I told you to take a few days off?" a line creased his forehead. "Or have I reached those twilight years where memory becomes unreliable?"

"Actually sir, your precise words were to take as long as I needed to recover before returning to work," her tone was light.

"And you have done that?"

"Oh, yes," she was smiling now; he could hear it in her voice. "I had a nice long lie-in this morning and feel much better for it, thank you."

"If you relapse at some point in the future because you have taken insufficient care, I shall be displeased," he remained impassive but his eyebrows lifted as he regarded the ceiling of his office. Anthea knew him well.

"Of course you will, sir," and now she was one breath from laughter. She must be feeling mended, in that case and nothing further need be said.

"Very well," he rubbed two fingers between his eyes. "Has there been any fall-out from Kensington Palace Gardens this morning?"

"Are you expecting fall-out at the Russian Embassy?" he could hear her fingers tapping on her laptop, checking the latest Intel feed.

"There may be a few ruffled feathers before lunchtime today, so keep an eye on them if you would," Holmes sighed briefly. Among others, the Russian contingent of diplomats at the Court of St James insisted on playing their little games. It was a never-ending merry-go-round that was momentarily wearying and irritatingly time-wasting. But it was how things were done, these days. He would leave the Russians in the hands of others now; he had bigger fish to fry. "Get me Palmer at MI5, please."

"Holmes," the man's voice was cordial. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was advised you've been hunting for an Eastern bloc sleeper near London," Mycroft inspected his nails, wondering exactly how keen Gerald Palmer was for the information. Either he'd bluff and ignore; jump and demand details, or there was always the chance he'd play dumb. He hoped it wouldn't be the latter, he felt out of sorts this morning and in no mood for games. "One has been found, thought you'd want to know."

"Who was the sleeper and where might you have met such a little bird?" Palmer temporised.

Holmes sighed. He really was not in the best of tempers.

"Vasily Orlov, one of Yudin's lot, I'd imagine; died in a hit-and-run last Friday evening in Cambridge," he said. "It wasn't an accident."

The Head of Britain's internal security agency was mildly surprised. Anatoly Yudin had been First Directorate Chief back when Russian State Security had still been the KGB. A long sleep indeed, in that case. If not an accidental death, who had terminated the agent? "Us or Them?"

_Then it had to have been the Russians who had Erwood killed_, Mycroft realised. Palmer's question was too disingenuous to be faked, and he had little reason to dissemble. Thus if neither MI5 nor his own people had been involved, there were few alternatives.

"Apparently, Them," Holmes frowned down at his desk. _But why would the Russians eliminate their own man in such an overt manner? Why not simply compel him to return to the Motherland?_ "Which is odd."

"Taking out one of their own?" Palmer was dismissive. "Not really; it's not as if we haven't done the same."

"But only when there was no other option and the stakes were critical," Mycroft tapped a thumbnail against his chin, thinking. "There is more here than meets the eye. I'll have the details sent over so you can run the usual follow-ups, although my people have already covered most of the ground."

"And the particular reason you decided to tell me about the dearly departed this morning?" Palmer wasn't head of a security-agency for nothing.

"There's likely to be a slight upset in Kensington Gardens today," Holmes advised. "Didn't want you to think it was anything connected to your hunt."

"You haven't been inviting the Russians to tea again, have you, Mycroft? You know how that always unnerves them."

Mycroft smiled grimly. "Not tea."

"Send Orlov's details and I'll let you know if we find anything useful," Palmer was ready to end the conversation.

"There is one thing more," Mycroft paused before reaching a decision. "See what you can find out about a woman called Grace Chandler, will you? I'll have her details sent with Orlov's; there may be a connection we've not yet discovered. Consider it a _quid pro quo_."

"I'll be in touch if we unearth anything further," and Palmer was gone.

Sitting back in his chair, Holmes rested his chin lightly on steepled his fingers. Despite the _unexpected_ events of the previous day and his decision to leave the Law Archivist well alone, the reverberations of their confrontation in her apartment had circled round and around his thoughts until he felt abnormally bothered and on edge. And though he wasn't entirely sure why, he had a reasonable idea.

Leaving Barge House Street last evening in the Jaguar, Mycroft Holmes had found himself enormously unsettled; intellectually, emotionally and physically. It was as if the encounter with the blonde Omega had exposed every one of his deepest weaknesses, brushing each of them with liquid fire. He had never been in a more precarious situation in his life and he had burned, in every sense of the word, he had _burned_. Fortunately, he had been alone in the car on the journey back to the office and there had been no immediate witnesses to his reprehensible state. He could and would rise above this.

Shuddering, Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes and breathed deep.

_He had fled_. There was no other word for it. And as soon as Grace Chandler had realised what he was doing, once she understood his unsympathetic rejection of her, she had smiled a mocking little smile and dismissed him, stepping into her room and closing the door. Shaken and mortified by his excruciating lack of self-control, his physical responses utterly routed by the unanticipated encounter, he had fled. _Run away, Alpha_, she had smiled, and he had done precisely that with his tail tucked between his legs, he ran; no revisionist desire of his could unmake the event. The palpable effect of Grace Chandler's fragrance was with him still and even at the thought of her, his pulse lifted.

He could not afford to lose his focus in this way, nor have his intellect shanghaied by either emotional or physical cravings.

He knew he could have no more to do with her.

###

Making coffee in her amazing new kitchen, Grace inhaled the dark scent of the brewed liquid and felt herself relax for the first time in two days. Not since the frightening scenes of two nights previous had she felt comfortable enough to simply let herself relax, even though she knew there had been two security men in the building who had departed only this morning, a brief conversation at her front door less than thirty-minutes earlier announcing their departure. She hadn't worried about them being too close while she was ... discommoded; Anthea made it clear Holmes had no time for Alphas in his department.

"We've had confirmation that the parties involved with the situation of the other night have been apprehended and neutralised, Ma'am," the taller of the two had smiled. "Everything is fine. You can go back to being normal now."

_Go back to being normal_. As if it was that simple.

Apart from making friends and getting more than a little tiddly with someone who, due to an unbelievable act of _inexcusable_ stupidity, she had managed to get shot within twenty-four hours of meeting, she had made an absolute fool of herself by believing the obvious ploy of an email to drag her away from her bodyguard. In addition to this, she had gone on to make an unspeakable scene where she had thrown herself, almost literally _thrown_ herself, at a complete stranger, _an_ _Alpha_, a man who she didn't even like terribly much. And all this in her own home, only seconds after a gun-battle where others might have easily been killed, and because of her. No wonder Holmes had pushed her away, no wonder the man had looked at her as if she were some kind of degenerate. _Not like this_, he had said. _Not like savages_. Heat rose into her face again at the very memory.

That she was still able to blush with the embarrassment of it all made it clear this little event wasn't going to leave her in peace for a while, especially when the low vibration of his voice ... _Omega_... still set her heart thumping. It was going to take her a while to clear the experience from her mind.

She could not allow such a lapse to happen again, could not permit her biology to control her behaviour. It was not civilised. It was barely human.

She knew she could have no more to do with him.

Her first call was at her friendly chemist's where she renewed her stock of suppressants, making a mental note never to leave herself in such an untenable situation again. The Law Archives were next, although she'd have to think up some acceptable response to those who asked her, in passing, how Spain was.

Her phone flashed with messages.

The first was from Robert Allan. She smiled, hearing his deep voice excusing her from cancelling their date of three nights past and demanding she make herself free for him the minute she got back from Madrid.

Grace frowned. She couldn't lie to him, but she wasn't sure how much she was able to tell him about Rafe Erwood. She would have to find a middle way.

The next message was from Sotheby's wanting to know if she would like to speak with the vendor regarding a private sale of the Ripoll Transcript, which made her pulse jump a few times.

The third was from an unknown man who said he represented the Alumni program of several Cambridge colleges and would she be interested in participating in an academic reunion that weekend? There was a Cambridge university number, she remembered the double-three prefix of all internal offices.

There were a couple of others from rare document dealers, but nothing urgent, so she picked up the phone and called Allen. There was a slight humming sound which disappeared as she keyed in the numbers.

"Well, _hello_, my lady jetsetter," his voice was smiling. "When did you get back?"

"I'll tell you all about it when we meet," Grace was pleased at least one person was happy with the idea of her company. "Free for lunch?"

"Not lunch, but this weekend's looking free and I might be able to squeeze you in for dinner if you play your cards right," his quiet laughter warmed a place inside her chest. She knew Robert Allen was in love with her and she was okay with that. He might not be a grand passion of a soul mate, but he was a wonderful friend and a thoughtful lover. Grace sensed he was going to ask her to marry him soon and her eyes softened. He would be an easy man to live with.

"Then I must play my cards exceptionally well," she smiled back down the phone. "I missed you."

"Did you, Grace?" Robert sounded suddenly serious. "Did you really miss me?"

"Of course I did, silly," she frowned a little, wondering what had brought that on. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Allen's voice relaxed. "Your unexpected vanishing act took me more by surprise than I thought it would, especially as you jaunted off without a word," he paused. "I was ... worried."

"Nothing to worry about," Grace grinned. "Buy me dinner and I'll tell you everything."

"Then I'll pick you up at seven at your place?"

"Lovely. Where are we going?"

"It's a secret. You'll know when we get there," he sounded smug.

"Such a tease," she smiled. "I'll see you at seven, then."

"I'm very happy you're back, Grace," Robert ended the call. She frowned again. That was rather intense for him. Oh well; _men_ and all that.

Turning back to her messages, she decided to ring Sotheby's while she still had a chance. Apparently, while the current owner had decided against an open, public auction, he or she was still interested in selling the Transcript. There were two other interested parties looking to purchase; she was the third. It was to be a negotiated price bidding process, and would the British Law Archives care to entertain an initial bid for the document?

Would she _care?_ Confirming an email tender would be acceptable, Grace was advised she had until noon to send through her bid. If the vendor liked any of the offers, then the deal would be done that day. If none of the bids met the client's reserve, a second round of bids would be considered.

One of the potential buyers had to be the Vatican, Grace realised; they were hunting down and claiming everything they could fine to do with Inquisitional history. This was always unfortunate as the Holy See had vast funds at its disposal. But who was the other party? A private buyer? The people usually interested in such documents as the Ripoll Transcript were like her; representing a museum or an official archive, so who was the third party? Making up her mind, Grace took a deep breath and typed up an email bid of nineteen-thousand pounds; near enough to be seriously considered, but not so high as to appear desperate. She allowed herself a small ironic smile; she had just returned nearly that much into her bank account following the recent botched attempt on her life, an attempt she still wasn't sure if she believed or not. Would those men really have been out to get her? It was hard to accept, but then she remembered the dark red patch on Anthea's arm. It had been real enough.

Thinking of the brunette's calm response to being shot, Grace felt herself flush with discomfort all over again. Fortunately, the woman appeared to have forgiven her on the promise of a future dinner, so there was a chance she might at least save the friendship, new though it was. As long as it didn't have to involve the Holmes man, she would be fine.

All that awaited in her emails were applications for copies of certain archive exhibits; permission requests from research students to come and examine the various collections, and diary reminders that a couple of reports were almost due. The paperwork could be done at any time, so she rang the Cambridge number and waited to speak to the man from the Alumni department.

As she waited for the phone to be answered, Grace realised that in the twelve years since she'd graduated with her PhD in which she'd focused on the conservation of medieval antiquities, she had not once returned for a gathering of any sort. Mainly because she'd been too busy, but also because she'd never really seen any reason to do so. Even though she'd been a member of Clare Hall, she'd spent most of the time working and researching at the Fitzwilliam Museum, a twenty-minute walk she'd made so many times she could do it with her eyes closed. And now she was being contacted to attend a reunion? Maybe they simply wanted money.

"Hello?" the man's voice at the other end of the phone was the same one who left the message.

"Hello," Grace smiled. "My name is Chandler; you left a message on my phone about an alumni reunion," she said. "Is there really a reunion happening, or are you just looking for a donation?"

"_Ah_," the man's voice changed as he realised who she was. "Doctor Chandler, how good of you to call back. I'm Celso Medici from the Student Service Department and we are indeed organising a get-together this coming weekend of as many of our alumni post-grads as we can," he paused. "Of course, if you felt inclined to make a donation to the university, I'd be equally delighted to facilitate that too."

"I'm sure you would," it was just as well Mr Medici was seventy-five miles away and couldn't see the expression on her face.

"So, are you interested in attending a reunion of Clare Hall?" Celso pressed for some sign of commitment as Grace considered. "It's really late notice, I realise," he continued. "But your name was one of several added on to the end of the list after we had contacted everyone else. So I'm sorry if it's a bit sudden. Do you think you might be able to make it, even so? You're more than welcome to bring a guest."

She mused over the idea for several moments. It might be fun. It was only for an evening and Robert said he was free for the weekend, so he should be able to come with her; it would be something different, so why not? It wasn't as if she made a habit of these things. Perhaps she might even be able to catch up with some old friends. "Put me down as a possible," she said, "and send me details, please," she added, giving her work email. "I'll speak with a friend and I'll get back to you tomorrow, would that be okay?"

"That's brilliant," the young man sounded happy. "I'll have the information sent out to you in a jiffy, including details of the overnight accommodation which is going to be in the hall of residence as al the residential students are still on short vac. Look forward to seeing you next week." As the call ended, Grace noticed the same odd humming noise coming from the phone and she frowned, looking around in case there was anything obvious to cause such interference. Across her office, it looked as if someone had moved a small table to get at a set of wall-sockets; that must be it. The electrician had been in to fix up the plugs, it must be something new. She'd tell someone if it kept annoying her.

An email arrived on her screen. _Sotheby's_. That was fast.

Devouring the brief message, Grace read that there had been two identical high bids and the vendor wished to meet with the principle parties later in the afternoon. If they wanted to meet with her, then she had to have been one of the high bidders, Grace realised. Hers and, no doubt, the Vatican's; this was going to be a fight between them.

_Happy to meet anywhere in London_, she emailed back. _Please advise time and place_.

###

At eleven o'clock, Anthea brought in a pot of tea, a small plate of almond macaroons and a series of enlarged photographs.

Handing the images over, she poured him tea and pushed the baked delicacies closer to his left hand. Mycroft hardly noticed, his attention focused solely upon the event displayed in the photos.

The first shot was of the front of the Russian Embassy, business as usual. The next showed an old Austin Allegro drive towards the tall ornate gates at, what must have been some speed, given the timestamp in the bottom of the print. In the next shot, the car door had opened out of which a body was already tumbling. In the following picture, the body was lying on the ground, almost at the very base of the gates, and the car door was closed. The final shot showed several men in suits running from within the embassy, towards the body.

"Apparently, Mr Bogrov has been the unfortunate victim of a vicious mugging, sir," she said, taking a chair on the other side of his desk. "It's very distressing."

"Do we know the provenance of the vehicle?"

"Unfortunately no," Anthea poured herself a cup. "It seems the car was using illegal plates and there is no CCTV coverage available of the vehicle's other occupants."

"Is there any indication as to who might have been behind such a violent attack upon a prominent member of our Federated friends?" Mycroft sipped his tea.

"No," Anthea sighed, frowning. "It's all something of a puzzle."

"Is he still alive?" Holmes laid the photographs out in a line across his desk.

"Unknown, but no ambulance has been summoned to Kensington Gardens, so we may not know for some while," she added, taking a macaroon and crunching in a decorous manner.

"Please send my regrets," Mycroft sat back from the desk, holding his tea. "Advise the Russian Ambassador we shall, _naturally_, do everything within our power to locate and apprehend the wrongdoers of the piece."

"_Naturally_," Anthea nodded. "Shall I send flowers?"

"Something appropriate. Lilies perhaps? I suppose a wreath would be presumptuous at this stage."

"Just a little," Anthea stood. "Leave it to me, sir," taking the tray of tea-things she left. He noticed she was favouring her wounded arm ever so slightly.

It would be hard to say a look of satisfaction passed across his face as he raked the photographs into a neat pile, but then presuming to know the Holmesian state of mind at any juncture was probably unwise. _Damage one of mine, lose one of yours, _his inner Alpha uncoiled slightly.

The red phone on his desk pinged quietly indicating a secured call and Homes wondered which operation was about to be progressed.

"Palmer here," Mycroft blinked slowly. Gerald Palmer had never quite got the hang of a dedicated secure line, but still, it was only MI5.

"Yes?"

"Got some intel on our Cambridge corpse, thought you might like," the man sounded urbane and cool as he always did when he wanted to make himself indispensable. Budget time must be around the corner.

"And?" Mycroft felt a little less testy now, but only a little. If Palmer insisted on making a meal out of every conversation, he'd have Anthea deal with the man in the future.

"Turns out it wasn't our Federated friends who clipped the bird's wings, but one of their neighbours," he said. "We found the driver of the car; it was an operative of the GIS."

_The Georgian Intelligence Service?_ Why would they be involved in the elimination of a Russian sleeper? Holmes frowned. If the GIS had killed Erwood, then why had the _Russians_ attacked on the Embankment? The Russians could not possibly have mistaken Anthea and Grace Chandler for Georgian operatives, so what was going on?

"I know what you're thinking, Mycroft," Palmer sounded faintly smug. "Once we knew where to look and whom to ask, it wasn't terribly difficult to find the information. Orlov wasn't actually Russian; came from a little place called _Khobi_, not far from Anaklia on the Georgian coast. He was recruited by one of Yudin's Scouts, back in the day, and taken to Moscow for training before he shipped over here and disappeared."

_So ... the Georgians had been after one of their own ... but this still didn't explain the Russian involvement. Had Erwood been a double agent?_

"What was he before the KGB found him?" Mycroft was marginally impressed; it was unlike Palmer to actually have something useful to offer.

"Until Orlov vanished inside the Lubyanka, he had been a senior curator at one of Georgia's largest collections of religious art; he even took the codename _Ikon_, which practically gives the game away, really."

_Ikon_ ... Vasily Orlov was taken from a Georgian art museum and landed, via Moscow, in Cambridge University ... was that merely coincidence? The university had long been a hotbed of political intrigue and scandal; consider Philby, Burgess and the rest of that damnable crew as an instance. Was there perhaps a modern equivalent?

"The KGB made him lose his Georgian accent, although apparently there was still a little foreign lilt, so the background they gave him was Welsh," by the sound of his voice, Palmer was reading the information now. "Ralph Erwood, Cardiff Welsh, educated in Fine Arts at the University of Wales and ..."

"Rafe," Mycroft interrupted. "_Rafe_. It's how they pronounce it in Wales."

"_Rafe_ Erwood, moved to Cambridge in late 1999 and took a Lecturer's role, moving up into a full Professorship by the early 2000's," Palmer was almost finished. "And according to everyone who knew him, was as British as they came."

_Including Grace Chandler with whom he worked as a supervisor in 2002_, Holmes made a face. This information was pointing him in a direction he had no wish to take.

"Where is this GIS operative now?" he opened the schedule on his phone to see his appointments for the next two days.

"He managed to give us the slip as we were transferring him between our Cambridge safe-house and the transport to bring him to London. Seems he asked to go to the bathroom, but instead made it up into the attic."

"Don't tell me," Mycroft closed his eyes. "Semi-detached house with a shared loft?"

"Unfortunately correct," Palmer sounded less smug by the minute. "By the time my man had discovered the unconventional exit, the GIS chap had left the house next door via the kitchen and legged it into the dark. I have a couple of teams looking for him now," he added. "I'll have him back fairly quickly, I am assured."

Assurances from the same people who lost the man in the first place did not fill his heart with any great deal of confidence and Holmes scowled. "Call me when you have him," he said, hanging up and leaning back in his seat, a sour sensation in his stomach.

There was little for it. Loath as he was to have anything further to do with her, he was going to have to speak with Grace Chandler again. Either that, or leave her to the uninspired competencies of MI5. He was momentarily tempted, but hit the intercom. The things one did for Queen and Country.

"Anthea, find out what Doctor Chandler is doing later, will you? I find I have need to speak to her again."

"Want me to arrange a meeting?" the brunette sounded utterly professional, but he detected a faint note of ... something.

"If you would; just fit me into her evening's schedule; no need to make a great fuss over it."

"Not a problem, sir," Anthea was all business. "I'll set everything up."

###

The location for the meeting with the current owner of the Ripoll Transcript turned out to be room fifty-four in the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. As soon as she saw the meeting place, Grace smiled. She knew that suite of rooms rather well, featuring, as it did, paintings from medieval Italy and home to one of her personal favourites. Paolo Uccello's _St. George and the Dragon_. The meeting was set for three o'clock, but as the walk from Essex Street took less than twenty minutes, and as she hadn't been for a while, Grace made it early. Walking around, she calmed her excitement at the possibility of _actually winning the Transcript_, by spending a little time revisiting some of her oldest friends; this, after all, was where her earliest ambitions had lain.

Her watch finally telling her to head for the meeting-place, she felt her heart ramping up to a full stampede as she eventually passed through rooms fifty-six and fifty-five, stepping inside fifty-four and looking around. There were the usual low wooden benches in the centre of the room, each facing part of the wall featuring one or more spectacular early Tuscan paintings, patrons kept well away from the glorious works by the old brass floor-rails navigating the outline of every room.

A small, elderly woman was seated directly in front of the Uccello. Other than the woman, there was only a mother with two young children staring at a fairly gory Giovanni di Paolo which captured the moment John the Baptist's head reached Herod. Both children were fascinated and Grace smiled. _Catch 'em early and feed 'em blood_, one of her old art tutors used to laugh about the problem of getting young people into the Fine Arts.

So ... if it wasn't the mother and offspring, then perhaps it was the elderly woman. Shrugging, Grace walked across to the already occupied bench and sat, her eyes automatically lifting to the amazing image in front of her. No matter how many times she had seen this painting, it excited her still. The subject, the composition, the passion, the colours ... Grace felt her heart rate slow once again as she simply sat and sucked the painting into her bones.

"I've always felt close to this one," the old lady didn't sound old when she spoke. "The cockiness of Saint George, the indifference of the princess ... it always makes me think of human relationships and how they never seem to look like what they really are."

"I know what you mean," Grace stared at the painting. "Look at George's horse, for example," she said. "That is an obsessed equine, and yet he's portrayed all in white, the steed of a saint, so the horse has to be pure and noble, just like his rider," she shook her head. "But anyone who really looks at the horse's expression can tell what's actually going through its mind."

"And that would be?" the woman turned to her, a faint smile across her face.

"The horse is nothing more than a thug," Grace waved a hand towards the enormous white creature. "It's grinning so hard, it's about to explode with excitement. If George hadn't finished the enemy off with his big phallic symbol of a lance, then you can be certain the stallion would have jumped right in and stamped the poor old wyvern to death." Grace felt her cheeks pink slightly at the recitative, but if there was one thing fabulous art did, it got her all worked up. _Well, damn it all;_ _it was supposed to_.

"Wyvern?" the elderly lady lifted her eyebrows.

"Um, it's not actually a dragon," Grace indicated with a finger. "See, it only has two legs and a long, scaly tail? Even though it has the head of a dragon, it's actually not one. Uccello painted several different versions of the scene, but he never painted a proper dragon; always a wyvern."

The woman peered more closely, nodding. "You know," she turned, smiling. "I never noticed," she smiled some more. "And what about those strange squares of grass at the front of the painting?" she asked. "Are they really grass?"

"Grace nodded. "It is grass," she confirmed. "Uccello had this lifelong obsession with perspective; you can see him seeking the vanishing-point over and over again in his paintings. He must have driven Ghiberti mad with it."

"_Ghiberti?_" the woman's eyebrows lifted further this time.

"Paolo Uccello's old apprentice-master," Grace found she was being drawn back to the painting, looking at the princess's dismissive expression. She sighed, turning to her bench-companion.

"Do you have the Ripoll?" she asked.

Pausing for a moment, the woman also shifted her eyes back towards the painting. "I do," she said.

"I want it for the Law Archives, so that I can create a proper timeline of the evolution of law around the world," she said. "I know there are some very serious people after it too, and they can eventually offer you far more money than I can. But I cannot tell you how hard or how long I have searched for this document."

"Why should I sell it to you and not one of the others?" the elderly lady looked thoughtful.

"Because ..." Grace exhaled loudly. _Because she wanted it more; because she knew the real, intrinsic value of the thing; because she'd treat it with respect and love. Because she wanted others to share her amazement at it_.

"Because I don't want it to be locked away in some dark and no doubt hermetically-sealed vault where it will never again see the light of day and lose all the power it ever had to inform and educate the rest of us; to show us what needs to be avoided in the future," she managed. "It has to be seen and valued for what it _tells_ us, not simply because it's a very old document that would add a nice full-stop to someone's shopping list," she looked down at her hands. "Sorry," she looked back at the old woman, a faintly sheepish look on her face. "I get carried away, but this is a very important thing that you are thinking of selling."

"I'm beginning to see," the woman nodded again, standing and offering her hand. "I will think about what you have said," she straightened her back.

"If it's the money, I can increase the bid a little," Grace also stood, shaking the woman's hand, a wash of panic in her chest that she might lose out. "I realise I must have been one of the highest bidders for you to even consider meeting me," she added. "But I can go a little higher if it helps?"

The woman turned, a different kind of smile on her face. "Yours was the lowest bid of the three," she said. "I simply wanted to see who was going to lose before I made up my mind," she began to walk to the exit. "I'll be in touch."

###

She had just left the shower when her phone rang, shortly after six-thirty that evening. It was Robert Allen.

"Darling, I've become a little caught up with this Hong Kong contract as we're still setting up the innominate terms and it's just a wee bit tense at the moment. If I send a cab for you, do you mind waiting for me for a little while at the restaurant? I promise not to be more than half-an-hour or so late. Do you mind dreadfully?"

Grace smiled. "I don't mind in the least, but are you sure you want to struggle to meet me tonight? I don't mind if you want to cancel, really."

"Definitely not going to cancel," Allen sounded cheerful. "But this contract has suddenly become rather more complex than I thought it would and it's at a delicate place. I should be able to resolve the issue by seven, but I'll be a bit later that we planned, that's all," he paused. "Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm sure I'm sure," Grace tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she walked into the bedroom to start dressing. "Are you going to tell me where this place is so I can get there?"

"Not a chance," he laughed. "I shall give the cabbie strict instructions not to tell you where it is but to take you there directly. I've booked a table, so go and have a drink or something and I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Such mystery," she took the phone in her hand. "If your cab is arriving at seven, then I have to dress now as I'm standing naked in my bedroom."

"Naked?" Robert's voice dropped.

"Totally. Just had a shower."

"Mmmm ... naked and wet ..." his voice dropped even lower.

"And late for your taxi if I keep standing here while you growl at me," she laughed.

"I like growling at you," Robert sighed. "Oh, alright, spoilsport. I'll see you after seven sometime, darling."

"Later," she blew him a kiss and ended the call.

Slipping into a recent purchase, a glowing knee-length, sleeveless light-grey silk cocktail dress, deeply V-necked, with a large flat bow of the same material resting on the high waist directly beneath her breasts. It was a plain-looking design, but inherently stylish and elegant. The colour and fabric emphasised the pale gold of her hair and the lightness of her skin and eyes. It fitted beautifully, even though it had been a sale purchase. Finding tan suede courts to match a clutch bag of the same material, she dusted her face lightly with cosmetics, dabbed on a few drops of her favourite _L'Occitane Verbena_, the light, citrusy fragrance making her feel alive and ready to have a wonderful time. Clipping grey pearls in silver to her earlobes and a delicate silver watch to her wrist, Grace grabbed a long silky jacket of deep purple, a genuine Lester she'd found in a vintage clothes shop. It was a wild colour and made her heart sing. It was exactly seven o'clock when her doorbell buzzed.

"Taxi for Chandler."

"On my way," she replied, slipping her phone and keys into the clutch and closing the front door behind her. Skipping down the stairs, Grace felt her whole body zinging with an unusual expectancy, as if she were on the way to meet a new man, not someone she'd known for over a year.

"You know where to take me?" she asked at the rolled-down kerbside window of the London cab. "Which is where, exactly?"

The driver, an older man, grinned and winked. "Been paid extra to keep it a secret, Miss," he said. "Just been told to get you there by seven, is all."

Smiling and deciding not to push the issue, she got into the back seat and just enjoyed the ride in the darkening city. Heading over Westminster Bridge and up Birdcage Walk, Grace found she was grinning madly. If Robert didn't ask her to marry him tonight, then perhaps she would ask him. She was in the mood to do it.

As the cab went up Park Lane, she wondered where they were going, until the car slowed, indicated right and turned into the forecourt of the Dorchester Hotel.

"He told me to tell you _Alain Ducasse_," the cabbie nodded, repeating the words to check his pronunciation. "That's where you have to go to meet him," he added, grinning.

Immediate understanding dawned and she nodded, matching the man's grin as she slipped him a fiver for a tip before turning to enter the hotel.

Having been here before, it wasn't as if she didn't know which way to go. Alain Ducasse was a celebrity chef, there was only one place to find his name. Making her way through the hotel, Grace found herself outside the well-known restaurant, walking in through the glamorous entrance into a cool ambience of fawns and beige adorned with white lights and crisp white linens. It was one of her favourite places, but on the pricy side and so kept for only the most special of occasions. Grace smiled to herself, wondering what special occasion Robert might be imagining for this evening.

"Table for Allen," she announced to the Maître d', smiling and waiting to be shown to her seat.

"Ah, but you are in for the treat tonight," the man lifted both eyebrows and smiled cheerfully as he beckoned to a nearby waiter. "_Table Lumi__è__re_," he instructed, waving her through into the hushed interior of the restaurant.

_Oh wow_. The famous circular table in the heart of the room, completely surrounded by a ceiling-to-floor white curtain, lit by thousands of optic fibre lights. Diners could see out, but it was impossible for anyone to see inside. It was booked out for months ahead and cost a fortune. She wondered how on earth Robert could have wangled it at such short notice, let alone the expense that must have been involved. She had never sat within its circular privacy before, and her heart beat a little faster with excitement. What was Robert thinking?

Showing her inside the luxurious and deeply private room, the waiter drew out a chair for her, waiting until she was comfortably seated before asking her what she would like.

"Mr Allen has been delayed," she said. "I'm expecting him in the next half-an-hour or so, but I'd like a gin-and-tonic in the meantime, please."

"_Mais, bien s__û__r_, Madam," the man nodded, taking her coat. "Although Monsieur Allen has already specified a delightful Dom Perignon if Madam would prefer?"

"Madam would definitely prefer," she paused, wondering if she should wait, but her tolerance for alcohol was not terribly high and she would far rather drink gorgeous champagne than gin.

"Un _moment_," he smiled again and left on silent feet as Grace looked around in wonder; she had no idea if she would ever eat in such magnificent surrounds again and wanted to absorb every last tiny detail.

Returning almost directly with another waiter who carried an unopened bottle of champagne, he arranged a stiff linen napkin across her lap while the sommelier showed her the label. It was a serious age, and Grace wondered yet again what was in Robert's mind. Perhaps tonight was the night? A small spark of excitement spiralled through her as she watched the wine steward remove the wire cage and twist the cork from the bottle with the very minimum of hiss. With a white linen towel draped across his wrist, he poured a flute of the wine for her with his other arm tucked into the small of his back. It was a very stylish performance and Grace soaked it all up, discovering her hedonistic streak was apparently growing exponentially.

Nestling the opened champagne in a silver bucket full of finely crushed ice and draping it with the towel, the wine steward stood back as she relaxed into the wonderfully comfortable seat sipping the sparkling wine. It was cold and fizzed deliciously on her tongue; she felt her excitement ramp up another notch.

Leaving her with a small platter of tiny _hors d'oeuvres_ of shrimp and caviar, both waiters bowed fractionally and left the curtained room. Sipping the wine and nibbling on a piece of decadent edible art, Grace sighed in purest pleasure; she was already having a ball and the evening had barely begun. A rustle of the curtain had her looking up, a smile on her face. Robert? So soon?

The genial waiter held the curtain open as a tall man in a dark suit stood in the entrance, his expression mild as he handed his coat and umbrella to the waiter, taking the seat that had been drawn back for him.

"Good evening, Doctor Chandler," Mycroft Holmes nodded as the sommelier indicated the champagne. "Glad you were able to make it."

Grace was momentarily stunned into silence. Not only because the man had simply waltzed in and taken a seat, _Robert's seat_, but because he was acting as if this had been the arrangement all along.

"What on _earth_ are you doing here?" Grace felt her indignation soar as Holmes tasted the champagne and nodded at its agreeability.

"I'm very sorry to tell you that Robert Allen will not be able to dine with you this evening," he said. "Confirmation of this," he checked his fob watch, "should be with you at any moment," he lifted his eyebrows, sipped the wine and smiled.

About to advise him exactly what he could do with his insufferable arrogance and unwelcome appearance, her phone rang. Clamping her mouth closed, Grace fished in her bag, lifting the phone to her eyes and swiping it open in the one movement.

It was Robert.

"Darling, I'm so terribly, terribly _sorry_," his voice was genuinely anguished. "The entire deal with the Hong Kong people has somehow gone from being virtually sewn up, to a point of disintegration within the space of a couple of hours. I have no idea what's gone wrong, but if I walk out on this now, I probably won't have a job come tomorrow. Can you possibly forgive me for leaving you in the lurch?"

"Best not to say anything to Allen about my presence," Mycroft relaxed back into his seat, the delicate flute of wine held lightly between his long fingers. "It would make things difficult for him."

He watched her inner indecision as she weighed the alternatives, able to identify the instant Grace Chandler opted for pragmatism. The slight clenching of her jaw, the infinitesimal frown between the eyes, the flattening of the lips. Really, the woman was a text-book example of micro-tells. Having revealed her decision in an instant, he felt able to spare a few moments to observing the rest of her. A new dress, pretty, light grey to match her eyes and hair. It suited her skin tone and her shape, added litheness to the slim curve of her shoulders and arms. There was an essential appeal there; a physicality that informed her presence with a natural attraction and warmth. Her entire presentation in fact, was pleasing; the archivist would not be an intolerable dinner companion. Beneath the light citrus scent, he fancied he could discern an altogether richer perfume that sang on a very different note. He inhaled sharply, blinking out of his brief reverie.

Caught between Robert's obvious distress, her absolute fury at the Holmes man and a growing sense of the absurd in the situation, Grace closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Robert, darling, don't worry about me in the least," she managed to speak with some semblance of normality. "These things happen. I shall simply go home and we can rearrange things for another time, I'm sure the restaurant won't mind."

"I'm devastated at calling this evening off," Allen sounded quite distraught. "I had such a lovely night planned for you."

"Robert, don't worry," Grace relaxed, her voice becoming gentled and soft. "Stuff happens, trust me," she looked up, shooting Holmes a very sharp glance. "I know from personal experience, my dear. Don't think any more about it; go back to your meeting and call me when you can tomorrow. It's all okay, I promise."

"You really promise?" the voice at the other end of the phone sounded fractionally less frantic.

"I really promise," she smiled. "Call me tomorrow."

"As soon as I can, darling, I will. So sorry about this evening. _Good night_," and he was gone. Heaving a short sigh, Grace threw the phone back into her bag and stood up. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes..." she began, her tone glacial.

"Please sit, Doctor Chandler," Holmes rested one hand on the table. "There are things I must discuss with you at this time, regardless of how much you would rather another was here in my place. Please sit."

"Or what?" Grace shot at him, still standing. "You'll have me arrested? Have me dragged out of my home in the middle of the night?"

"You would prefer it that way ..?"

Grace almost hissed at him. So damnably calm about this whole thing. It was almost as if he knew Robert was going to be sucked into an all-night meeting... she caught her breath, pausing as the thought flashed through her mind.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she arched her eyebrows and threw him a look of ice. "_You did this_, this _thing_ Robert is having to deal with tonight. You've engineered this entire event."

"Are you asking me or making a statement?" he sighed, linking his fingers together across his stomach. "It really would be much easier all round if you simply sat down and talked to me, you know."

"Last time we talked, you left rather _abruptly_," Grace allowed a note of spite to creep into her voice as she sank down onto the edge of her seat. "We could have talked then."

Patently ignoring her perfectly unreasonable complaint, Mycroft simply widened his eyes and held her with his dark blue gaze.

"I cannot believe you would go to these lengths to talk with me like this after our last encounter," Grace shook her head, her initial fury subsiding into dazed disbelief. "And now you're here, drinking Robert's champagne," her voice grew chilly again. "You really are an unprincipled bastard, aren't you?"

Placing his glass carefully onto the white damasked table, Holmes linked his fingers and leaned forward. "Had Allen been with you this evening," he said. "You would have enjoyed a pleasant meal at a table far too close to both the kitchen entrance and the gentlemen's lavatory for comfort," he said. "This way," he waved his flute around at the curtain and the lights, "you get to have a far more agreeable, relaxing dinner while you enthral me with your old university exploits," he added, suddenly leaning even further forward, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping flat. "And I _never_ drink another man's champagne."

"You're telling me you arranged all this?" Grace waved her hand around. "You organised the Dom Perignon, the table? It was all you?"

Saying nothing, Mycroft sat back into his seat and watched her as he sipped more of the perfectly aged wine.

"If I leave, you'll just come after me again, won't you?" she felt her shoulders drop in resignation.

"A wise decision, Doctor Chandler," he nodded approvingly. "More champagne?" he reached for the bottle.

"I've made no decision," she scowled, even as he refilled her glass.

"Yes, you have," he smiled faintly. "Now what would you like for dinner?" he asked. "The _Table Lumi__è__re_ is famed for its wide and varied cuisine. Whatever your fancy, if they have the ingredients in the kitchen, you can have it tonight. Are you hungry?"

As soon as Holmes had started talking about food, Grace realised she was starving. It had been an unsettling kind of day and food had been the furthest thing from her mind. Until now.

Observing her over the rim of his glass, Mycroft smiled again. "I can heartily recommend both the turbot and the lamb," he said. "And Chef Herland is noted for his exquisite way with lobster and crab."

"Crab?" her stomach apparently knew the meaning of the word and growled softly in demand. It had been a long day and she _was_ hungry and the champagne _was_ glorious. Allowing her shoulders to relax back into her amazingly comfortable chair, she sighed, half-angry at Holmes and half-angry at herself for being such an obvious pushover.

"Excellent," he nodded. "Might I suggest we begin with caviar, then a langoustine broth, followed by _foie gras_ and morels, after which I shall have the turbot. You would like a dish with crab? And do you enjoy lamb? We can see about dessert if you are up to it at that point, I think," Holmes nodded again at the waiter who immediately vanished, as quickly and silently as he had appeared.

"You can't just _do_ that," Grace frowned. "You have no idea what I might want to eat."

"I think you'll find everything will be very much to your liking," he smiled in his irritatingly superior way. "Although all you need do is say, and a replacement will be ordered, if you wish."

"It's not the food," she sat back and looked him squarely in the eye. "I simply would prefer to order my own dinner rather than have anyone act on my behalf. Especially a strange man, and an ..." she paused, suddenly examining her glass before meeting his eyes, a determination in her words. "I'd rather you didn't presume, in future."

"Very well," he sat back in his chair, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "I promise not to presume in the future."

She wasn't sure, but something in his tone hinted she'd just agreed to something she had no idea had even been in the conversation. Sighing again, she sipped more of the champagne. It really was very good and she couldn't help but appreciate the choice.

"Tell me then," she said carefully. "Why it is suddenly so important for you to talk with me that you would go to these lengths to acquire my company."

Swirling the pale wine around the tall flute, Holmes pursed his mouth and was silent and thoughtful, his stare inward and reflective. "Rafe Erwood's death was not accidental," he said, _apropos_ of nothing.

"Oddly, " Grace looked unimpressed. "After those men tried to kill me at the Embankment, I somehow gathered there was little of the accident in any of this."

_Good_. That was _good_. She was already open to the seriousness of the situation. "Given our understanding that Erwood was actually _Orlov_, a professional agent and operative of the Russians, we naturally assumed that, since his termination was no act of any British agency, that the Russians themselves had decided to dispense with the man's services," Mycroft straightened the silverware on the table as he waited for her response.

"But now you're going to tell me it wasn't the Russians either, aren't you?" she nodded absently, tasting the wine.

_That was perceptive_. "Although the two men who attacked you were indeed Russian operatives, we think others were responsible for Erwood's demise," he breathed shortly. "He was born Georgian, comes from a small town called Khobi near the Georgian coast on the Black Sea," he said, halting immediately he saw her face grow still. "What?"

"I know Georgia a little," Grace put her glass down and looked at him, curiously. "I've been there twice in fact, for my research ... although it was years and years ago ..."

"Tell me everything," Mycroft demanded. He knew there had to be a deeper connection between Chandler and Orlov, and this might be the tip of it. "Tell me."

The waiter chose that moment to return bearing the first course of their meal; tiny dishes of glistening black caviar with numerous and equally tiny things to assist in its eating. There was an entire salver of side dishes. Grace blinked, slightly bemused. It was like Christmas.

Waiting until the man had smiled and left them, she speared a sliced prawn, spooning a little of the caviar over it with a squeeze of lemon before sampling the morsel. It was unbelievable and she closed her eyes in wordless approval as she chewed.

Despite his focus on the possible new link to the Russian agent, Mycroft permitted himself a moment to observe and smile at the doctor's sudden hedonism as he topped up her glass. It wasn't often that anyone allowed themselves to be so open about anything in his presence that he found the brief exhibition gratifying. "Good?"

"Superb," Grace opened her eyes, their grey flecked with the reflection of thousands of tiny lights from the surrounding curtain. "Beyond perfect."

It was probably the first information she had offered him that was both truthful and happily given.

"I assure you, the rest of the meal will be equally delightful," his smile flattened. "Tell me about Georgia."

Sitting back and smoothing out the linen napkin covering her lap, Grace puffed out her cheeks as she thought. "The first time I went there was for research during my Honours thesis. I was studying Conservatism and the restoration of antique arts. There was a summer program taking place in Tbilisi at the National Gallery and I managed to persuade my school to help fund my attendance. I was there for nearly four weeks."

"At the National Gallery? You didn't work anywhere else? Conduct research anywhere else?" Mycroft helped himself to a spoonful of caviar on a fragile biscuit of glazed onion no larger than a coin. "When was this?"

Narrowing her eyes in thought, Grace pondered. "It would have been the summer of 1999," she said, nodding slowly. "I completed my thesis the following April, then decided to find work in the industry. I managed to find a trainee conservator's internship at a medium-sized auction-house in Bristol, and while it was only for six-months, I knew it was what I wanted to do," she smiled at herself. "Hard to believe it was all so long ago, fifteen years, now," she smiled again and shook her head.

"When you were in Tbilisi," Holmes returned the conversation to Georgia. "Who did you work with? What kinds of things did you do? Were there any important or senior people involved in the program?"

Disappointed to see the small bowls of caviar and associated nibbles had vanished, Grace sipped her wine instead. "I worked only at the gallery," she said. "The entire thing was very heavily supervised, with all sorts of failsafes built in so none of us could do any real damage," she added. "Don't forget, it was only eight years since the Soviets had left and the entire country was struggling to get back on its feet, hence the reason for these student programs; apart from helping us learn, it was really great PR for the Georgian government."

"So you went nowhere beyond the Capital in all the time you were there?"

"Oh, no," Grace sat up, about to explain the rest of it, when their waiter returned with a small trolley bearing a covered soup-tureen and two bowls perched above a small silver heater. "You heat the bowls?" she asked, pleased.

"Of course, Madam," the man smiled. "The soup of langoustine loses flavour if served in cold porcelain," he added, deftly setting out the plate ware and serving a fairly generous helping with two baskets of the most minute hot bread rolls, each featuring a different herb. The perfume of warm dill and lemon made Grace close her eyes again, her lips curving at the sheer pleasure of the experience.

Mycroft watched, not the waiter with the soup, but the unabashed appreciation of the woman seated opposite. Clearly this level of gastronomic indulgence was novel to her, but it was more the way she embraced the entire thing so visibly and wholeheartedly. He found it inexplicably charming.

"Tbilisi?" he reminded her, after the waiter had left.

"Hmm?" Grace smiled, her thoughts miles away.

"Georgia," he added, "In the Caucasus; a small but significant part of eastern Europe."

"Ah, yes," she brought herself back down to earth. "Tbilisi," she smiled at him.

For a second, Mycroft found himself wanting to smile back. Grace Chandler was not faking this, clearly having decided to make the best of his ambush, she was now genuinely enjoying the meal and making no effort to conceal it. He took an irrational sense of pleasure in the fact.

"We worked in the gallery almost every day, but at the weekends the people in charge of the program arranged all sorts of day trips, and that's when we went to Khobi," she said, pulling a tiny loaf apart in her fingers and inhaling the sensuous aroma of basil and olive. "There's a centre for religious art in the town, which not only exhibits some very decent artefacts, but also keeps scraps of relics from several old monasteries. Most of the stuff was so far gone; broken and decayed, that there wasn't much more damage we could do to any of it. Each of us on the program salvaged several small pieces and took them back to the gallery where we were permitted to practice the techniques we were learning. It was great fun and incredibly valuable," she sighed sadly and looked down at her soup bowl which was now almost empty.

"Despite its cultural and intellectual value, you don't appear to have completely enjoyed the program," Mycroft tapped a finger against his glass. "Or am I wrong?"

"The program was fabulous and I and everyone else had the greatest time," she stopped and laid her spoon down. "But it was also the place that made it clear to me all my dreams of being an art conservator were simply that; dreams and nothing else."

"How so?" he was genuinely curious. Nothing in her, admittedly sketchy, personal history indicated anything untoward.

"My greatest passion was also my greatest enemy," Grace shrugged philosophically. "I discovered I have an acute allergy to acetone," she shrugged again. "I thought it would go away if I became desensitised to it; I tried everything: gloves, barrier creams, even face masks, but it just got worse. Even the smell of the stuff does awful things to my breathing. I had to leave Tbilisi early and come home," she looked sad. "I tried again several years later and managed to keep a job with an art restorer for a couple of years by dint of enormous caution and vast amounts of ventilation, but in the end I came down with a ferocious case of the flu and couldn't return to the studio; I was even more sensitive to the stuff than before," she looked sideways at the now-empty champagne bottle.

It was impossible not to smile; she was actively engaging in the conversation. Clearly the way to Grace Chandler's heart was through her stomach. "I have an especially fine Pinot arriving with the _foie gras_," he said, lifting his eyebrows. "It will not disappoint, I promise."

"Sounds lovely," she was very comfortable, feeling the growing effects of several glasses of exceptional champagne, complemented by wonderful food. It was impossible not to feel good about it. While they waited for the next course, she took advantage of the iced water on the other side of the table. Despite a residual, niggling anger at the man's sheer affront and his infuriating assumptions about everything, including herself, Grace was pragmatic enough to accept that if Holmes wanted to speak with her, he would find a way. And if that _had_ to happen, this was as good a place as any.

"What happened in Tbilisi at the gallery?" he asked. "Did you see anyone of note? Any senior political figures? Diplomats?"

"If we did, nobody told us who they were or announced themselves as such," Grace allowed him to refill her water-glass. "The people we saw the most of were actual conservators and artists," she said. "The Director and Deputy-director of the gallery came in and out all the time, and they occasionally brought people through with them, but nobody that any of us recognised, sorry I can't be more help there."

About to quiz her on the resident experts at the gallery, Mycroft stopped short as the waiter returned with the trolley, smartly clearing the dishes away, only to replace them with a long central platter on which were very arranged pieces of the duck pâté, accompanied by small round dishes of the morel mushrooms and a veritable cornucopia of chutneys, a dried fruit compote and several grains of fleur de sel. There were also two small baskets of warmed plain brown bread cut into scallops. It looked almost too pretty to spoil by eating. He also showed them both the label on the bottle, before pouring each a glass, replacing it in the bucket after removing the exhausted champagne.

Selecting the appropriate fork, Mycroft detached and swallowed a small piece of the _foie gras_ and smiled unreservedly. Chef had outdone himself tonight.

Grace laughed. "That's the first time I've seen you look remotely human," she said. "Though I wonder how something as simple as pâté can be quite _that_ good."

"Try it for yourself and see," he looked pointedly at the slice nearest her plate, his expression reflecting an inner amusement.

Rolling her eyes slightly, she did as he suggested and tasted ... the most _divine_, _melting_ creation that _ever_ landed on a plate.

"Oh, _God_," she groaned. "This is _incredible_. How have I never tasted this before?"

Looking more than a little smug, Mycroft smiled knowingly. "But if you would prefer a different dish, you need but say," he offered airily, lifting the fingers of one hand.

"Not a chance," Grace tried a taste of the nearest chutney, and even _that_ was amazing. She took a deep breath. "You are still an unprincipled bastard," she murmured, "but you have an marvellous knowledge of food and wine and this is simply fabulous," she said, looking up and meeting his eyes. "Thank you."

The complete sincerity of her statement and the expression on her face lodged strangely inside him. What Grace Chandler said was nothing less than accurate, but to have her say it in such an open manner ... His inner Alpha stirred, _flexed_. He found himself smiling again as he lifted his glass of Pinot. "Pax?"

Had they reached a place where there might be peace between them? Grace met his gaze and tried to see behind the surface of him, to see the reality of the man who epitomised all the extremes and little of the ordinary. Even with his faults considered, he didn't seem to be all that horrible any more.

She chewed her lip a little. "Pax," she nodded eventually, clinking the rim of her glass against his.

"Pax, _Mycroft_," he prompted, a light of humour in his face.

She said nothing, just allowed her eyes to widen a little as she sipped her wine. _Pushy_ must be his middle name.

"Did you see Rafe Erwood while you were in Georgia?" he asked offhandedly. "Either in the Capital or in Khobi, or anywhere else for that matter?" Mycroft kept his voice casual, but this might be a crucial point.

Leaving the food for a moment, Grace frowned in thought. "I don't think I did," she said, "but in all honesty, if he had been there, I'm not sure I would have remembered … he would have been in the background, in any case, not one of the experts working on the program."

That ended that line of inquiry,_ although …_ "If Erwood had been there, would anything have stopped him for watching the participating students?" he asked, thoughtfully. "Did you have an audience at any time?"

"We often did," she said. "Remember, the program was a big PR circus as much as anything else and in the several weeks that I managed to stay there, we would have had people coming in to watch us almost every day, even checking our work and examining the quality of the things we were attempting to restore, not that we had any great success," she added. "Especially given the degraded state of the salvaged pieces."

"Did they allow you to send mail home during your stay?" Mycroft pondered the possibility of coded communications, or letters being appropriated for a more clandestine purpose.

"Oh yes," Grace nodded. "Though none of us sent much more than postcards and emails. I certainly wasn't there long enough to write much of anything except my notes."

"Notes?"

"Mmm. We were taught to write up each of our restoration projects at every stage of the process in order for us to maintain a record of things that worked or not. It was a highly scientific model and one I've applied pretty much ever since."

"And how were these notes managed?" Mycroft felt himself on the edge of something, possibly something important.

"Great big hefty notebooks that the program supervisors gave us as part of the proceedings," Grace smiled a little, remembering. "Enormous, solid things, with leather bindings. Excellent quality, actually; I've never been able to find anything as good since I came back."

"I don't suppose you still have yours, do you?"

Grace cast her mind around her still-unfinished apartment, visualising the tall piles of still-unpacked boxes and crates. "I'm not sure, although I can't remember throwing them out," she said, slowly. "They are probably somewhere," and before she could stop herself, "want me to have a look for them?"

"If you would," he nodded deliberately, his mind already churning through a series of possibilities. "You said you went to Georgia twice?"

"The second time ..." Grace stopped as the waiter made another silent entry with the silver trolley. How did he know when to bring the next course? She was impressed, and not only with the food.

Clearing the plates and the central and by now, extremely empty, platter, he delivered two domed plates, the first to Grace which, when uncovered, presented her with an extraordinary selection of penne pasta and cracked crab claws in a lemon and passion fruit sauce, the scent so light and ethereal she could almost have worn it on her skin. She inhaled and beamed.

Mycroft's plate was a piece of white turbot surrounded by numerous turned pieces of vegetable, each piece shaped by hand and placed in concert with spears of asparagus, almost as a necklace around the fish.

Everything was steamed fragrance. It was a beautiful moment.

Grace felt exceptionally happy.

Mycroft was momentarily unsure which offered the greatest gratification; the food or her smile.

He paused as their server left, waiting for the archivist to open her eyes and re-engage. She didn't; simply sat there, a faint but foolish grin highlighting the delicate line of her profile.

"It _is_ meant to be eaten rather than conserved and archived," he offered, carefully, unwilling to shatter the mood which, if he was pressed, he would admit to enjoying rather more than he had anticipated.

Grace opened her eyes. "I've drunk a great deal more than I usually consider good for me," she said. "I've also eaten far more already that I normally do in the evening," she sighed. "But you know, I really don't care. This is wonderful," she added, lifting a fork and spearing a rich pink piece of soft crab, consuming it with the greatest relish and delight. "I will have to fast for the next two days to fit into my clothes, but I think it might be worth it," she added, sipping the Pinot and feeling extraordinarily indulged. Something warm flowed inside her and it wasn't the wine, it was deeper, somehow. More fundamental. Special.

Mycroft experienced the strangest impulse to keep her at the table until she fell asleep, but forced his thoughts back to the matter in hand. "The second time you were in Georgia?" he encouraged, gently.

"I returned to Georgia to secure some first-hand accounts of ancient preservation methods for my PhD," she sighed beatifically, the crab tasting of sea-foam and salt-breezes. "I went back to Tbilisi and the National Gallery in order to meet with a small group of retired conservators," she looked inwards at the memory. "I was only there for a few days; in meetings most of the time."

"Did anything odd or in any way out of the ordinary occur while you were there the second time?" Mycroft allowed the fish to melt in his mouth; truly this was turning into an exceptional meal.

"Not a thing. I was in and out with barely a ripple," Grace tried more of the Pinot and thanked God for taste buds. "Erwood was my supervisor in Cambridge at the time; he said nothing when I told him I was planning a trip back to Georgia ..." she paused, lifting her head slowing and meeting his eyes, a sense of shock clouding the clear grey depths. "In fact," she added, slowly, "thinking on it now, he wasn't surprised in the least. He didn't offer any opinion at all," she exhaled softly. "He already _knew_."

"So it is not implausible to imagine something was going on in Tbilisi involving Erwood and to which you may have been an unwitting party," Mycroft laid down his knife and fork, fixing her with a deep stare. "But what?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Grace smiled ruefully, relaxing back into her chair, the effects of the wine and the food and the evening beginning to tell. "And frankly, at this point in time, I don't care."

He knew enough to see she was almost done, not only with the questions, but probably with the evening. "I doubt you can stuff yourself any further," he observed, the entertainment in his eyes candid and unchecked. "But would you like to attempt dessert, or will you explode? Perhaps an espresso and a cognac instead?"

"I'll share a dessert if you want one," Grace closed her eyes and relaxed, almost boneless, back into her chair. "And coffee and cognac sounds divine, although I may have to sleep here for the night if I attempt those, so I give you fair warning."

"You'll share a dessert?" he'd never shared food with anyone; not even his younger brother. It was an extraordinarily intimate idea and the very notion tantalised.

Right on cue, the waiter appeared, listening and nodding before clearing away the empty plates and pouring them the last of the Pinot.

"I feel in an extremely good mood," Grace half-opened her eyes, their grey less clear now and more smoky, as if dark tendrils of night were curling behind them. "Will you trust me?"

"Will you trust me, _Mycroft_?" he smiled, his eyes fixed on hers.

Blinking almost sleepily, she raised an eyebrow. "Will you trust me, _Mycroft_?" she asked, lifting a hand.

"I may regret this, but as you have been so accommodating this evening, it would be boorish for me to be anything less," he sounded perfectly relaxed as he sipped his wine. "I agree to trust you."

In a second, Grace turned to the waiter, beckoning him closer and whispering in his ear. "And coffees, please," she added, turning an innocent face back to her dining companion. "I'd like an espresso," she added.

"As would I," Mycroft laid his napkin on the edge of the table. "And two balloons of the Otard, if you please," he said, visibly easing his long frame into the chair, returning his gaze to her. "Am I going to regret this?" he wondered idly.

"I assure you, the rest of the meal will be delightful," she fed him his own words, a faint slyness in the curve of her lips.

"Hopefully then, we are both to be relied upon," he linked his fingers across the slight curve of his stomach and allowed his shoulders to rest deep in the chair, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

She laughed. "If you were any more relaxed, you'd be in bed, asleep," she grinned, pleased at these signs of his increasing humanity.

"It has been a delightful dinner," he acknowledged. "Wonderful food, great wines and a most affable dinner companion."

"Affable?" her eyes widened again as she examined the word. About to mock him dreadfully, Grace bit her tongue as the waiter returned with his little trolley, on which there was a single oblong plate sheltered by a ubiquitous silver cover. Placing the plate on the table and lifting the top with a practiced flourish, Mycroft leaned forward on his steepled fingers to see whatever it was he had agreed to attempt.

It was something in small, cube-like slices, smothered in what was obviously a dark chocolate sauce, but enlivened with the aroma of mint, something citrus and ... something imperceptible but exquisite. He inhaled deeply but the sweet, rich, citrus perfume was too complex to make out without taste.

Taking one of the slender silver spoons, she sliced off a small portion of one of the coated cubes, dipped it in the dark sauce and lifted it to his lips. "Trust me," she smiled.

Holding her eyes, he accepted the spoon into his mouth and had his palate explore the taste.

Vanilla ice-cream, one of the house classics no doubt, which, even on its own would have been sublime. But now it was smothered in a glossy bath of molten dark-chocolate which in turn had been combined and infused with crushed fresh mint, bergamot orange and ... what?

"Star fruit," she said, as she saw him attempting to analyse the tart aftertaste. "It cuts the sweetness of the ice-cream and takes the entire dish to a different level of sophistication," she added. "I thought you'd like it."

"_Delicious_," he nodded, still leaning forward and suddenly realising he was waiting for her to feed him another spoonful. He sat back, oddly self-conscious.

The sommelier entered their glowing white cave at that moment, bringing with him a silver tray on which were two extravagantly large brandy balloons, each containing a very decent measure of golden spirit. Even from where she was sitting, Grace could detect the heavy perfume of the cognac.

"You are really going to have to pour me into a cab to get me home, you realise," she said, taking another spoonful of the icy dessert.

She was using the same spoon with which she had fed him, he realised, an entirely unexpected _frisson_ tracking down the back of his neck as she licked the utensil clean. Mastering his immediate and admittedly visceral response, he lifted the second spoon and tasted the cold dessert a second time. It was truly outstanding.

Their waiter returned with coffees; the rich aroma lifting their senses yet again.

This was one of the most intriguing meals he could recall having in years, if only because it had begun with an adversary and ended with a ... collaborator? An ally? He comprehended there had been a change in the mood between them, though he wasn't entirely certain how it had taken place, or even the precise degree of alteration. No doubt alcohol had played an important role.

Swirling the last of the cognac and the final drops of her coffee, Grace Chandler knew that, whatever the cost, she could not let him pay for this meal entirely. Though her finances were stretched because of the money-pit that was her apartment, she was determined to pay her fair share of this evening's bacchanal.

Even as she was reaching towards her bag, his lifted his eyebrows and fixed her with an uncompromising stare. "If you are determined to insult me," he said. "I'd prefer you found a different way of doing it," he added, handing an ebon-black credit card to the unassuming waiter who happened to have reappeared as silently as ever.

"Then let me take care of the tip," Grace refused to be browbeaten by a man so obviously used to being in charge of everything and anything that took his whim. He might well be an Alpha who knew his way around posh restaurants, but she was damned if he was going to get _everything_ his own way.

His eyelids drooping to hood dark eyes, Mycroft sat back, silent amusement curving his mouth. "The usual tip is approximately ..."

"Ten-percent of the meal, yes: I _am_ aware," she said, sitting quietly and performing some frightening mental arithmetic.

The food in this restaurant would have been well over a hundred-and-fifty each; then there was the champagne, and that particular Dom Perignon must have been through the roof. Then the Pinot, God only knew how much _that_ would have cost, followed by the coffees and sky-high cognacs.

Grace swallowed. The bill had to be at least seven-hundred pounds. And then there was the premium for the _Table Lumi__è__re_ and the tax. The final sum was significant indeed. For _dinner_.

She could have almost built a second bathroom in her apartment with the money this meal had cost.

"You are very generous," she said softly, opening her purse and extracting two smooth fifty-pound notes, tucking their edges beneath her coffee cup. Grace lifted her eyes and held his gaze. There was not a single chance in hell she would allow herself to be intimidated by him. "Thank you for an incredible experience."

Mycroft felt suddenly at odds with himself. He had a terrible urge to press the cash back into her hand while simultaneously wanting to re-experience the moment she had fed him ice-cream. His pulse rose with the conflicting desires and he realised he was frowning.

"Something wrong?" her voice was still soft, yet called to him with undertones of something indefinable.

"Nothing's wrong," he stood, taking her coat from the waiter and holding it out.

Stepping backwards into his arms, Grace felt his fingers slide the silky fabric up and over her bare shoulders, his chest flush against her back for a brief second. She inhaled his cologne, richer now at this proximity, and found herself wishing, if only for a moment, that he was Robert Allen.

###

Considering her demand for a cab to be an impetuous and ill-considered gesture, he held the door of the Jaguar open as Grace slid herself inside. There was no great distance between the Dorchester and Barge House Street, the journey at that time of night taking fractionally under ten minutes. The car was just crossing the Thames when her phone rang.

It was Allen.

"Hello, Darling," in such close confines and however much he might wish otherwise, Mycroft found he could hear the other side of the conversation relatively clearly. "Where are you?"

"On the way home from the restaurant," Grace was feeling increasingly sleepy, almost yawning as she wallowed in the velvet-soft leather seat.

"You stayed for dinner alone? _Oh_..." there was an unmistakable note of disappointment in his voice.

"I decided to stay and eat, yes," she added, a little put out that he would think anything of it. After all and for whatever reason, _he_ was the one who cancelled on _her_. Did he thing she wouldn't need to eat at all? "It seemed a reasonable idea."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone," Grace had no real idea why she lied, except that she really wasn't in the mood to deal with a sulky man tonight. "I had a fabulous meal which cost the earth, and I'm sorry you weren't able to make it, but yes: I stayed and had dinner. Is there some point you're trying to make?"

"Of course not," Allen's tone moved away from the faintly thwarted. "I had simply hoped to be there to share the experience with you; that's all."

"Then we shall have to dine there again at some point in the future," she suggested. "How did the Hong Kong contract go in the end?"

"Fine, eventually," Robert sounded relieved. "Once we bypassed the sticking-point, everything went as smoothly as a canoe on wet grass. I'm not even sure what the problem was now, in fact," he also sounded somewhat bemused.

A problem called Mycroft Holmes, she was tempted to reply, but said nothing.

"Shall we meet for coffee tomorrow at the Edgar?" Robert's voice took on a faintly fussy note.

"That would be lovely," Grace tensed her jaw to stop a yawn. "Ten-thirty?"

"Ten-thirty in the Edgar," he seemed happier. "Sleep well and I'll see you tomorrow," he added. "Night, darling."

"Night, Robert," she sighed softly, ending the conversation.

There were several moments of silence in the car.

"You lied to him," Mycroft kept his gaze pointing directly ahead.

"Yes," Grace agreed. "I'm not in the mood for explanations."

Realising discretion was the better part of valour in this instance, Mycroft maintained his forward stare and his silence.

The sleek black car pulled into the near-deserted street and he got out, holding the door for her, turning as she headed for the main entrance to the building.

"I had a genuinely wonderful time," Grace looked up into his eyes in the darkness of the night. "I didn't expect to, and I still think your actions were outrageous, but you may have redeemed yourself somewhat with that dinner," she smiled a little. "I'd ask you in for coffee, but we both know that anything after that meal would be a disappointment, so I won't."

"I appreciate your candour, Doctor Chandler," he was amused, she could tell.

"_Grace_, please," she said. "If it's to be Mycroft."

"It is," he nodded in the dark, opening the door for her and heading for the staircase.

"I'm unlikely to get lost between here and my flat," she laughed. "Careful now, or I may be forced to offer you that coffee."

"I would naturally respond with a very plausible excuse," he murmured, looking up at the stairs ahead.

"Only one?" she laughed again.

"How many would it take?" he sounded mild.

They reached her front door. "This is me," she said, fishing out her keys and pressing a palm against the smooth wood. "Thank you again for ..."

Grace stopped abruptly as the door moved inwards at her touch. About to throw the door wide open and charge in, she was suddenly barred from further movement by a restraining arm looping around her.

"You know, I don't really want this evening to end," he said, not missing a beat. "I think I will take you up on that offer," he added, his voice no different than it had been a moment before. "There's a little café not far from here, if you might care for a stroll?"

Fighting silently against the restraint of his body as the shock of realisation hit and alarm rocketed to instant _fury_. _Someone had broken into her home_; she wanted to find out what had happened, what had been done ... but the long fingers of his hand were tight about her upper arm, while the other closed across her mouth, entirely muffling any outburst. He squeezed hard, then harder still until her initial frenzy passed, only relaxing his grasp as he felt her opposition wilt.

"I think coffee would be a great idea," she played his game at last, her voice only a little shaky. "Shall we go?"

Though his immediate instinct was to confront whoever was inside her flat with violence and remarkable malice, Mycroft found himself also needing to _protect_ and was relieved when she yielded to his command without protest. He managed to pull her all the way down to the front entrance and back into the car before either of them felt any further need to speak.

"Around the corner," he directed his driver who pulled away from the kerb in seconds. Pulling his Nokia from an inside coat pocket, Mycroft called for two immediate teams; one to her apartment and the other to the house of Robert Allen.

"If they know you were expecting to meet Allen at the Dorchester tonight, they might have gone to his home too," he said. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to him now, would you?"

"But why would anyone go after _Robert?_" Grace was in complete turmoil.

"This is clearly connected to the Erwood situation," Mycroft turned to meet her eyes for the first time since they regained the safety of the car. "Whoever killed your old professor has killed others," he said. "Considering the lengths to which they will go in pursuit of their aims, nothing would surprise me now and I want no further casualties," he stopped as she rubbed her upper arm. "I'm sorry," he added in an altogether softer tone. "I had not intended to hurt."

"At least I'm alive to feel it," she sighed, her body beginning to shake a little with the chill of shock and reaction. "Do you really think there was somebody in my flat?"

"Probably within yards of the front door," Mycroft removed his topcoat and wrapped it around her, tucking its dark length tight into her sides. "We'll wait until I hear from my people."

The latent heat of his fine wool coat combined with a deeper tang of his aftershave made her feel better almost immediately. There was something so incredibly comforting about his smell that Grace didn't even realise she was relaxing.

He answered his phone before the second ring, listening in the dimness of the car. "Yes," he said. "Immediately."

"Well?" she turned her face.

"Allen is unharmed and unmolested," he said. "Although I doubt that would have remained the case for long ... I'm arranging for him to be taken into protective custody until this situation is resolved," he added. "His association with you has become dangerous."

"How would anyone know that I'd be out this evening, or that Robert would?" Grace felt warmer and far more comfortable in Mycroft's coat, her mind sufficiently alert now for questions to arise. "How could they be sure my apartment would be empty tonight?"

His mouth twisted slightly. "One or more of your phones are being monitored," he said calmly, matter-of-factly. "It would be the simplest way to garner information. Have you noticed anything odd with your phone at all?"

Grace thought. There had been nothing really ... until she recalled the odd humming sound from her phone that morning, and the fact that a table had been moved from its usual place in front of the electrical sockets.

"There was a funny sound on my office phone today," she nodded, turning to meet his eyes. "A sort of hum. And a table was in a different place."

Mycroft blinked slowly. "I'll have my people sweep your office," he mused. "And Allen's too," he looked sombre. "It's clear now that you are their next target," he opened the door on his side of the car, walking around to the kerb and opening hers.

"But why would anyone be after me?" Grace allowed him to help her from the Jaguar. "I don't _have_ anything."

"They must believe you have something or that you have been told something, or hold something from Erwood," he said. "And until they find what they're looking for, they, _whoever_ they are, will stop at nothing until it's in their hands," he added, tucking her hand into his elbow as they walked back down Barge House Street to her building.

One of his security men was there by the door; it was the one of the pair who had been there only that morning.

"There's been an incursion, sir," he said quietly. "Bit of a mess, but we found no-one. They must have left immediately after you."

"Would you rather go to an hotel for the night with Anthea?" he asked, looking down into her grey eyes, "or are you up to dealing with what they've done to your apartment?"

"I want to see," Grace set her jaw. "I won't sleep otherwise."

"Very well," he opened the main entrance and walked her back up the stairs to her own front door. There were lights on inside now, but she still hesitated before pushing the door inwards.

On the surface, there was little disturbance in the immediate entrance room, mostly because there had been nothing there. But as they walked towards the central book room, Grace felt her heart race. Even from where she stood, she could see books had been tossed about the place and pages and papers everywhere.

Inside, it was terrible. Barely a book was left on the shelves. Whoever had done this had been thorough and without remorse. Most of her most precious texts had been thrown across the floor, pages spilling like blood. Her desk and computer had been ripped apart.

"The hard-drives are gone," Mycroft scowled blackly.

"_Oh_," Anthea walked in. "What a bloody awful mess."

"My books," Grace felt her stomach heave. "My _books_," she whispered, almost in tears as Anthea gave her boss a really vicious look and put her arms around the blonde woman's shoulders.

"Don't fret," she spoke gently. "We can put this all right. Don't panic. We can fix this over the weekend."

"I was going to an alumni reunion at Cambridge with Robert at the weekend," Grace felt her eyes blur at the unfairness of it all. What had turned out to be such a pleasant evening and now ... _this_.

"You may still attend the gathering," Mycroft inhaled slow and deep. "But you won't be going with Allen," he said.

"Then I won't bother going," Grace dragged the side of her hand across her eyes regardless of mascara.

"Yes, you will," Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "But you'll be going with me."


	3. Chapter 3: Conspicuous Resistance

**An Unconventional Relationship**

_A Conversation with Subtext – An Adorable Man – Additional Security._

#

#

After Mycroft had tendered his apologies and slipped away to confer with others in high places, Anthea spent quite a long time on the phone while Grace changed into jeans and a raggedy old top, using up most of what was left of the night sitting on the floor, undertaking a distressing triage of her mutilated collection.

Some of the oldest and probably the best-made tomes were in fact the least damaged, a few with only minor scuffs on the patina'd leather covers that could be burnished back to a normal glow. Others were not so fortunate, with several large, ornately-covered books being split at the spine, their pages hanging away from the hand-sewn bindings and looking very sorry for themselves. These could be repaired, Grace saw, but would require painstaking professional restoration which would take both effort and money. She could do it herself if she had the time, materials and equipment, but as she had none of these, then until the money from the insurance came through, she'd have to use the cash from her renovation budget.

She sighed, turning hopelessly to the final pile: the casualties that no amount of TLC might assist; they had been ripped apart in powerful hands, their thick covers literally peeled away from the heavy, hand-made endpapers. One of the books, an illustrated compendium of North American birds had been so completely pulled to pieces that each of the hand-tinted plates had been scattered in different parts of the room, many of the individual pictures ending up under the _chaise-longue_. At least they had been safe from further damage under there. But the rich leather cover was damaged beyond recovery, and the beautiful, hand-pressed bindings had been split and shredded as if in a terribly fury.

Putting her phone away finally, Anthea came over and sat on the edge of the _chaise_, resting a hand briefly on Grace's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I understand how awful this is for you."

"It sucks hugely," the archivist added another plate of exotic ornithology to the growing pile and looked mournful. "Why on earth would anyone do _this_ to books?" she lifted some orphaned pages up in her fingers and shook her head. "If they had been stolen, I could have understood it, but to do _this_ to them ... just hacking them apart ... I have no idea why anyone would do that."

"Try not to let it get to you if you can," Anthea leaned down to pick up several of the large coloured drawings. "These are quite exquisite," she murmured, staring down at the glorious fan of a peacock's tail. "This is exceptional work."

"Then please have that one as a thank you for being so supportive," Grace looked down hopelessly at the others. "There's no chance I can put any of these back together again; the paper-fibre is too fragile to be rebound."

"Do they have any value as individual plates?" Mycroft's assistant bent down again, this time lifting up a picture featuring a Grey Heron, its spindly legs and long, curved bill portrayed with the elegance of a much earlier century. "They look spectacular."

"They're probably worth a little," Grace shrugged. "Value is not always something I keep tabs on; I don't collect these wonderful things for the money."

"I've got someone coming in tomorrow morning to repair your desk if it can be repaired," she said. "If not, I'll arrange for a replacement as close to the original as I can get."

"That's okay, you needn't worry," Grace wiped her face with dusty fingers. "I'm pretty well insured," she added. "You learn to be, in my business."

Not seeing the frown on Anthea's face, Grace sat back on her heels, a great wave of fatigue making her eyes go blurry. "I'm going to have a lie-down," she said. "I can't face any more of this tonight," she paused, checking her watch and looking out through the nearest entranceway to see grey shadows creeping into the rest of the flat. "This morning, rather," she stood, a little wobbly. "Your bed is still made up if you want to crash too," she added. "Though I'm rather glad you're here; I don't think I'd do very well by myself right at the moment."

"Go and grab some sleep," Anthea smiled. "I'll hold the fort."

Squeezing her new friend's hand, Grace plodded off to her bedroom, too tired to think of anything else, she dropped herself down across the width of the bed, pulling a rich Prussian-blue throw over her weary frame. In moments, she had drifted into an exhausted and unhappy sleep.

It was full-light when Mycroft returned to find his assistant making tea, staring through the heavy-glazed window, out over the heads of tourists and locals walking along the edge of the river.

"She's probably asleep still," Anthea handed him a delicate cup-and-saucer. "She was up most of the night trawling through what's left of her collection; whoever did this was intent on causing as much damage as they could," she added. "Grace thinks she can call her insurance company in," Anthea paused. "I didn't have the heart to tell her."

"_Ah_," Mycroft frowned and pursed his mouth. "I'll tell her now, in that case," he said, taking an extra cup of tea with him, he headed through the flat towards the main bedroom, pausing momentarily as he reached the door. The memory of being here only a few days ago was suddenly strong in his mind. He took a breath and straightened his back.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, swinging open silently at the touch of his free hand. He walked into the room and was surprised, not only by the extraordinary amount of light created by the window and the partially-glazed roof, but by the immense feeling of comfort and seclusion brought about by the deep colour scheme; the thundery blue-grey walls and carpet providing the sensation of a storm-front about to descend. He would have thought it somewhat intimidating for a woman, and an omega at that.

Seeing her curled up in the centre of the large bed, a corner of the heavy blue brocade covering her, he sat a little distance away, lifting the fabric gently from her face.

Her eyes were closed, her pale skin glowing against the darkness of the rest of the room; she was the brightest thing in it, like a white swan on a grey, rainy river, her light gold hair strewn heedlessly in her sleep. The lush overlay of her scent was everywhere.

He had a sudden image of her laid out across the bed naked but for the blue rug, her face ablaze with desire as she waited for her lover to join her inside this stormy bower. The image was so powerful his hand jerked, spilling a little tea in the saucer.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as the visualisation left him.

Shaking her shoulder with firm fingers, he waited until she stirred, blinking sleepily in the morning light, focusing on his face.

"Good morning," he said, offering the cup. "Tea."

"Mmmmph," she sat up groggily, dragging fingers through her hair and rubbing her face. "What's good about it?" she grumbled, leaning forward and taking the cup, pushing her hair aside again as it flopped back over her eyes.

"You are safe and unharmed and shall be kept as such until I have resolved this situation to the satisfaction of all involved," he nodded. "Drink your tea."

"Are you my mother now?" Grace muttered, sipping the hot drink nevertheless.

"Anthea informs me that you are planning to contact your insurer regarding the damage to your property," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Grace wriggled over to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, their legs almost touching. "What's happened now?"

"You cannot make a claim on your insurance for criminal damage unless you first have a police report," he added, watching her face for comprehension. "There can be no police involvement in this matter."

As the unwelcome information made its way past the residual layer of fuzziness, Grace replaced her cup with a loud clink and closed her eyes again as she took a breath.

"It's not enough that I have been dragged completely innocently and unwillingly into the middle of this mess; that I am having my life manipulated and controlled at the whim of others; have suffered significant damage to both my property and my peace of mind, but now you are telling me I can't even ask for official assistance, assistance I have _paid_ for, to put things to rights?" she turned to look him dead in the eye. "In what universe is this equitable?"

Mycroft tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Last night in the restaurant, you asked me to trust you," he said, his eyes not leaving hers. "Now I am going to ask you to do the same thing, no matter how hard it might be for you to do it, or how unwilling you might feel about the notion at present," he added, inhaling audibly. "Will you trust me?"

His blue gaze was so penetrating and so steady that Grace found it difficult to look away.

"Trust you with my property, my safety, my sanity or my life?" she asked, forcing herself to take another sip of the cooling tea.

His eyes seemed to widen slightly. "With all of it," he said. "Everything."

"I only asked you to try a new dessert," she put the cup down slowly. "You expect me to do a great deal more than that."

"Yes," Mycroft felt it important that she understood how serious he was. "You have no idea how much I want you to do this."

"To put my life in your hands, in fact," Grace felt herself go breathless.

"Entirely in my hands, yes," he nodded. "Will you trust me?"

"I think it's more a question of _can_ I," she looked down at her hands. "You are asking me to give you something I've never given anyone," she met his eyes again. "You want absolute faith."

Her eyes were clear grey pools fringed by light brown lashes; he could count them each time she blinked. He said nothing.

"I'm Omega," Grace breathed hard, looking for the right words. "We feel ... very _deeply_ about trust," she said. "To ask for that level of reliance is like ..." she hesitated, her words faltering as she looked for an analogy. "It's like this," she said, reaching for his hand and lifting it until his fingers were wrapped around her throat.

He could feel the pulse of her blood leaping beneath the pale skin. It was so suddenly arousing that his lips parted in a silent breath.

"This is what you are asking me for," Grace said. "You, an _Alpha_, are asking an Omega to give you the last thing we dare give anyone," laying her hand on top of his, Grace wondered why her heart was beating so hard and so fast. There was a subtext to this conversation that she didn't understand; she knew only that things were being said in the spaces between words. It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

"Yes," his eyes had darkened to the same storm-cloud blue as her bedroom and his words were measured, as if they carried a great weight. Though his fingers were light against her skin, he found it difficult to keep them steady; they felt heavier than stone. "That's precisely what I'm asking."

There was a strange air of expectancy. Neither of them breathed.

"I think I'm going a little mad," she whispered, mesmerized by his unwavering regard. "But I will," she lifted her hand away, letting his fingers slip, an odd coolness left behind. "Don't break me."

Mycroft moved his fingers back to her wrist. "I won't let you fall," he allowed his thumb to rest in the centre of her palm. "I will keep you safe."

"Why?" she asked. It was important somehow, for her to understand this. "Why are you so concerned about my welfare? You barely know me."

Mycroft smiled faintly. "I am Alpha," he said quietly. "You, an _Omega_, are asking an Alpha to explain the last thing we know how to explain to anyone," his hand relaxed to lie beside hers on the bed between them.

"Yes," she smiled with faint expectancy. "I am. Tell me."

He was silent, looking vaguely at the far wall of the room as he gathered his thoughts. "I will protect you because I can," he said. "And because ..." he took a soft breath and met her eyes again. "Because I want you to need my help ... it ... enables me."

Such stark truth between them was indefinably shocking. Less than twenty-four hours before, she would have gladly shut her door in his face. But now ... Grace had no doubt that without his help, she might as well paint a red target on her back. Yet the situation demanded further clarification.

"You ask me to take what you have to give," she nodded, realising. It was simple, really. By agreeing to trust him, _really_ trust him, she was acknowledging not just his ability to do his job; whatever that might actually be, but also sanctioned his prerogative to be _Alpha_. Mycroft Holmes was a man of old-fashioned ethics; he would not impose his idiosyncratic nature unless he was certain it was acceptable. "I understand," she said, touching a finger to the back of his hand. "I think I really understand."

Mycroft felt the fine hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Their accord was a great deal more than words. _I protect you because it is what you need; by this need, you are mine to protect._

"So if I can't use my insurer, what should I do about my books in the meantime?" Grace allowed her hand to lie lightly beside his. It felt like a pact had been sealed, though what for, she wasn't entirely clear. There were many levels in this conversation and she was pretty sure she had only been privy to one or two. It was both unnerving and exciting.

Usually shunning any form of personal commitment, Mycroft found himself actively desirous of Grace Chandler's acceptance. He wanted her to grasp that he could and would do what he said. Out of nowhere, it had suddenly become vitally important to have her believe in him, a belief he would not abuse. His fingertips were once more warm against the bones of her wrist.

"Make a list of every single piece of damage and its associated cost for repair or replacement, if it can be replaced," he said. "Leave nothing out, not the smallest detail. If anything cannot be repaired or replaced, make a note of what you might find adequate in its place," he said. "I will accept whatever you give me as an honest appraisal and will act accordingly."

"To do what?" she wrinkled her forehead, aware that his fingers were again wrapped around her hand. "This could be a great deal of money; it's why I have excellent insurance cover," she added. "What will you do with this list?"

_Mine to protect._

"I will ensure your collection is made whole again," he said. "I promise you will not have to grieve for your beloved books," his voice was curiously peaceful. "I give you my word."

_I trust you._

"Then that's what I'll do," Grace wasn't at all sure he understood how much money was involved here: thousands, possibly; likely, in fact. But he was so insistent that she needed to let him do this, that she sat back on the bed, a smile rising like sunrise across her face. She handed him her empty cup.

"In the meantime, I have to get cleaned up and dressed," she stood, looking down at him still perched on the corner of her bed. "Will you wait for me?"

_Mine to protect_.

"I will wait," he nodded, coming to his feet. "Though I am not a patient man," he smiled at her, a surprisingly agreeable wash of warmth in his chest that she wanted him to stay until she was ready. A feathery feeling, it brushed against something inside him in a light and entirely pleasing way. "Don't take too long."

Grace had no idea why she was smiling at being told to get a move-on, but she was. It was as if the warmth of his fingers had spread from her wrist to her entire body. It was decidedly weird and yet ... not unpleasant.

"Ten minutes," she ushered him from the room. "And then you can tell me about your master plan."

"What master plan?" his eyebrows drew together in a furrow, relaxing them only after her laughter had followed her into the bathroom. He returned to the kitchen where Anthea was making breakfast.

"Have you eaten?" she asked. "You haven't, have you?" she shook her head. "I don't suppose you slept last night either."

"You are correct," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was on the phone for several hours."

"Russia?" Anthea buttered a piece of toast, handing it to him.

"Russia, Georgia and MI5," he muttered, biting off a corner of the crunchy bread. He stared out of the window towards the river. "She really does have some spectacular views from up here, doesn't she?"

"Doctor Chandler has a number of spectacular things," Anthea sounded artless.

"Meaning?" Mycroft was immediately wary; his assistant had never been artless in all the years of their association.

"Meaning that it would be unwise to judge that particular book by its cover," the brunette turned off the gas and gave the pan a final stir.

"That particular book is in dire need of our help," he said, his eyes partially hooded at Anthea's unusually buoyant mood.

"But not in this rather fabulous kitchen," Anthea tipped the oozingly scrambled eggs onto a warm plate. "Have some protein to go with that toast."

"If he doesn't, I will," Grace walked into the room rolling up the long sleeves of her sweatshirt and pulling out a bar-stool at the central island between them. Reaching for a plate and a fork she eyed the eggs and toast approvingly. "I'm starving."

Mycroft found it difficult to restrain a smile. "Only last evening you swore you'd have to fast for two days," he said.

"I suffer from anxiety-hunger," Grace announced reasonably, stretching over for the toast and encouraging Anthea's generosity with the spatula. "I have a rapid metabolism, especially when I get tense," she added. "I relax when I'm fed."

"Then by all means," he waved at her loaded plate. "Feed."

"You said last night," she mumbled after a swallow of fresh tea. "That I should still go to the reunion at Clare Hall? Or did I imagine you said that?"

"You shall go," he nodded. "But not with Allen," he added. "Until this thing is laid to rest, it's too dangerous for him to be anywhere near you, I'm afraid."

Grace paused with a fork-full of scrambled egg held in the air. "Does Robert know what's going on? Can I speak to him?"

"Robert Allen is now comfortably off the map in a pleasant little hostelry somewhere in the quiet English countryside," he paused, a minute narrowing of his eyes as he recalled the precise location. "Near Chelmsford, I believe," he added. "And no; he is unable to receive any phone calls," he said. "Too easy to trace. Both of your office phones had monitoring devices in them," he added, looking sage. "A professional job for the most part, and explains a great deal," he nodded, taking a second piece of toast. "Please don't be overly concerned; Allen has been advised of the situation ... of _most_ of the situation, and understands the need for absolute discretion in this instance," Mycroft sounded ever so slightly officious. "He has stated his preference for a speedy conclusion to the situation and asked that you be reminded a dinner is still mandated at some future point," he added, his nostrils flaring with slight affront.

Grace grinned over her toast. Robert had probably pinned a few ears back when he was told he'd have to go into protective custody; he wasn't a lawyer for nothing.

"So why do you want me to go to Cambridge?" she leaned back, hunger satisfied for the moment. "Isn't that likely to be on the dangerous side, given that whoever traced my calls knows all about it?" she sipped her tea. "Or am I not supposed to be worried about getting shot at?"

Turning to face her, Mycroft was smoothly urbane. "Naturally, there will be a number of my security people allocated to you at all times," he said. "Plus there will be an additional measure ensuring your personal safety, though it would not work for Allen," he added, smiling sweetly and taking a bite of toast.

"And that would be you, I'm assuming," Grace allowed her eyes to widen in amused wonder, turning to look at Anthea's improbably straight face. Mycroft's assistant schooled her features into an impassive mask, but not before her lips twitched. "But you still haven't told me why we have to go to Cambridge in the first place. Isn't it going to be dangerous? And isn't keeping me out of danger the whole point of having security in the first place?"

Mycroft had walked back over to the long horizontal window that faced over the river with the astonishing views. He stood so still and silent, Grace wondered if she'd been tuned out.

"Everything centres on Cambridge," he announced finally. "Erwood was placed there as a sleeper by the Russians; his entire undercover career focused on his work at the university and virtually nothing else," he swivelled on his heel, meeting her gaze once more. "There have been three other deaths in the town, one of whom was, like you, a previous PhD student of Erwood's who also worked at the Fitzwilliam Museum. The other two were not associated with the university, but were known to be close friends of the man himself," the Alpha paused, marshalling his thoughts.

"That you have become the target of multiple attacks; on your property, on your privacy, both in your personal and professional roles, as well as quite possibly on your life, makes it abundantly clear that you are special in their eyes for some reason; that they want _you_," he stepped closer, leaning both hands on the island and fixed her with his dark blue stare. "And I want to know why. Why the reunion, for instance?"

Shrugging, Grace heaved a deep sigh. "No point asking me," she said. "I know even less than you do. The only thing I can tell you about the reunion is that there was a phone message at work from a guy called Celso Medici in the university alumni association who apologised for the late notice but asked would I be interested in a get-together this weekend. He said the reason I hadn't been contacted earlier was that my name and a few others had been added at the last minute."

"Your name was added to the list for the event _after_ the others?" he frowned, staring down at the granite bench top.

"Mine and a few others," Grace nodded. "Why?"

"It's too obvious a ploy," Mycroft sucked down a short breath and looked unpleasant. "If they can't get to you, then they want you to come to them."

"So it's a trap and I'd be mad to go," she waited for his focus to return to her. "It _is_ a trap, yes?"

"Of course it's a trap," he muttered, meeting her puzzled expression. "And it is precisely for this reason, that you must go and I must accompany you."

"This makes no sense whatsoever," Grace stared at him.

"Until we have exposed the total operation; the entire nest, you will never be safe," his voice was low and compelling. "Unless you are prepared to live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder at every screech of car brakes, or to feel afraid every time you receive an unexpected telephone call, then you must help me do this: I cannot do it without you."

His eyes were on hers and he had no reason to lie.

_I trust you._

"Then I'd better organise a couple of days off work," she said, walking back to the bedroom and her only untapped phone.

###

There are only seventy-five miles between London and Cambridge, just over an hour's drive straight up the M11. The black Jaguar swept along them all with barely a whisper of its five-litre performance engine.

"You expect me to call you Robert?" Grace had been reading through the evening's program on her laptop when Mycroft had given her the news.

For the duration, he would be Robert Allen; International Corporate lawyer, man-about-town and close, personal friend of one Grace Chandler, Chief Archivist of London's Law Collections.

"It would seem indicated, given that I shall be posing as your _inamorato_," he didn't bother looking up from the sheaf of papers in his hand.

"You want me to introduce you to everyone as my boyfriend?" she couldn't help the horrified half-grin that sat on her face. "_You?_ You consider yourself partnership material?"

The papers dropped into his lap. He turned, mildly exasperated. "How hard can it be?" he asked. "You introduce me; I smile, make a certain amount of small-talk, we move on. I believe I am sufficiently well-versed in the art of diplomatic chit-chat to avoid the worst of any potential conversational pitfalls."

"Yes, but ..." Grace waved her hands, looking for the words. "These are my old friends," She said. "They'll want to know things; they'll ask all sorts of questions."

"Questions about what?"

"How we met, where, when, what brought us together, when did we fall in love, what our future plans are," she babbled, stunned by his dispassion. "Normal _people_-questions. How do you plan on dealing with those? You can't ignore them or walk away; they'll think you're odd."

"And that would be a problem why?" he looked intrigued.

"Because that's not the kind of man I'd fall in love with," Grace stared at him. "They'd know something was wrong from the start."

Mycroft closed his eyes. _If it must be ..._

"Very well," he linked his fingers together and rested them in his lap. "Ask me any question you think appropriate for Robert to answer."

"And you'll do what?" she frowned, watching his face.

"Ask the questions."

Taking a breath, she paused. "Where did we meet?"

"We met over a year ago at a Law Council dinner at the Temple Courts; you had only recently begun establishing the new law collections and I was a rising star in Asian-Britannic corporate contract law. We hit it off immediately."

He sounded so matter-of-fact about it, that Grace felt herself on the edge of doubtful laughter.

"And what kind of things do we do together for fun?"

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Other than you astonishing me with your ability to eat?" he sounded dryly amused. "I am dragged around various antique markets while you ferret out ghastly old texts of dubious merit in order to assuage your eternal obsession with the printed word," he smiled fleetingly. "The hunt gives you great pleasure," he tipped his head sideways. "It is amusing to watch and renders you unable to refuse my demands that we adjourn to a decent restaurant and theatre later in the evening," he paused, thoughtfully. "I have a preference for Shakespearean and political tragedies."

That was a bit more like it; there was an air of convincing detail that seemed almost genuine. "Except Robert likes Restoration comedies," she informed him. "Dryden especially."

Mycroft looked pained. "Really? Nell Gwyn, rakish sexuality and the lowest common denominator of public taste?"

Grace laughed. "I hadn't pegged you as a snob," she sat back in the Jaguar's luxurious seat, a half-smile curving her mouth. "What about our future plans? Where are we heading?"

He paused, meeting her eyes. "Are you sure you'd want Robert to answer this one?" he asked. "It verges on the indiscreet."

"Tell me anyway," she shrugged. "How would you characterise our relationship?"

"You are an unusual woman and I am fortunate that you put up with me? That ours may not be a partnership of overwhelming passion but we have arrived at a place of beneficial mutual understanding? Which would you prefer?"

"Beneficial mutual understanding is like something from one of my insurance policies," she said, making a face. "And putting up with me makes me sound like some dreadful ogre of a woman. Try again, please."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes a little, relaxing as he took in her forlorn pout. "I am desperately in love with you and only waiting on an appropriate moment to ask you to take me as your own, faults and all," he said softly. "I'm terrified you'll say no."

Her heart thumped suddenly as she turned to face him. "Do you really love me desperately?" she said. "You don't act it."

"I'm a corporate lawyer," Mycroft lifted his hand and flicked back a strand of pale hair from her face. "I'm having to re-learn a few things around you. I am not one of the world's most demonstrative souls."

"You haven't said anything that might suggest desperation in the least," Grace watched his face. "It's been a lot of pleasant evenings in nice restaurants and several weekends fossicking around the Southbank book market; hardly indicative of anguished longing," she stopped, watching his faint but growing smile.

He lifted her hand, rubbing his thumb across the back and smiling to himself. "Quite desperate," he repeated, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a feather-light kiss against the smooth, pale skin. "Unspeakably so."

Grace went breathless as her pulse surged. "Robert has never so much as hinted ..." she began.

"Then he's a fool," Mycroft dropped her hand down to the seat between them and returned to his papers. "Any other questions you'd like me to try or do you think I'll pass muster? Will my _auto-da-fé_ be in any way reminiscent of poor Ripoll's?"

"You know about the Ripoll Transcript?" she almost stuttered. Her mind was still spinning from the sensation of his lips brushing her skin. Not the kind of thing Robert ever did; she should say something ...

"While I may be playing the part of your romantic partner this weekend," he said, "please don't confuse Robert Allen and I," he looked back at her with a sharply raised eyebrow. "We are not remotely similar."

Turning to stare out of the window at the passing countryside, Grace wondered what on earth was going to happen in the next forty-eight hours. Would there be another attack? Was this even, as her new protector seemed so adamant, a potential trap? It seemed so unreal and difficult to believe. This was not some chapter of the Cold War; the Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie had gone the way of the Dodo more than twenty-five years ago. How had she managed to become entangled in something straight out of a John le Carré novel?

The rest of the journey was spent in contemplative silence as she started wondering who might be at the reunion. She'd never bothered going to any of the others; always been too busy or not in the country at the time, but now that she'd committed to go, Grace found herself curious. She also felt a little guilty that Robert wasn't actually able to be with her; he might have enjoyed meeting some of her old university friends. He might even have used the weekend as a reason to start talking about their future, assuming he wanted one with her, of course.

The sun was still a warm golden ball in the sky as the car pulled to a slow halt in the manicured forecourt of Clare College. It was an ancient construct reaching all the way back to the days of Edward the Second in the early part of the twelfth century; one of the first parts of the university ever to be built. This was a far larger and grander building than the radically-modern postgraduate edifice that was Clare Hall, and clearly the university was putting on a good show for its alumni, probably hoping for some generous donations before the weekend was out.

Holding the car door for her, Mycroft allowed a warm smile to settle on his face as he looked around. "Never been here before," he said. "It looks almost as regal as Oxford."

"Robert went to the LSE to do his Masters in Business law," she said. "He never felt grand enough for a place like Oxford."

_The LSE. That explained the Restoration comedies._

"Oxford makes one grand," Mycroft folded her hand into the crook of his arm and walked her up to the long pathway to the main entrance. A young man and woman were waiting at the side of the open door, greeting people as they arrived and handing each person a package of information and a security card on a brightly coloured lariat to hang around their neck.

"Hello, I'm Celso Medici," the male part of the welcoming committee greeted them. "And you are ..?"

"I'm Grace Chandler and this is my guest, Robert Allen," she gazed around. "The old place is looking particularly spruce today, although it's been a fair old while since I was last here."

"Ah, _hello_, Doctor Chandler," Medici grinned, shaking her hand. "Great that you could make it; we're really pleased with the number of graduates who were able to get here for this particular weekend; we're got quite the crowd."

"It's good to be here again," Grace turned to smile up at the tall man beside her. "Shall we go for a stroll around the place and I can give you the grand tour?"

"That would be lovely, darling," Mycroft wrapped an easy arm around her shoulders, smiling as he took two of the packages. "If you can tell us where our accommodation is, I'll have my driver drop off the bags."

"Yes, of course," Celso looked beyond Mycroft's shoulder at the darkly uniformed man holding a weekend bag in each hand. He opened a slim folder of printed details, running a finger down only the first few lines until he found _Chandler_.

"Um, that's interesting," he said. "Everyone else has been given student rooms in the main Hall of Residence, but it seems as though you have somehow been put up in one of the vacant Master's chambers; not certain how that happened, but I'm sure you'll like the place. It's much more private and a little way away from all the other residents. You won't mind that, will you?" Medici sounded faintly uncertain.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Mycroft smiled warmly as the younger man fished out an old brass key from a bag behind him. Checking the handwritten tag attached, he nodded. "Yep, here you are. Second floor, all the way along to the east corner," he added. "You'll have a fabulous view over the Cam from there."

"Most appreciated," Mycroft waved the driver past, handing over the key as he went. "Are we all meeting for dinner at some point?"

"Indeed we are," Celso was smiling again. "In the Great Hall at seven this evening. We suggest black tie, but it's not compulsory, of course," he looked at his watch. "That gives you plenty of time for a good stroll around the place. First gong will be at six-thirty. Is there anything else I can tell you before dinner?" he asked. "Most of the information you'll need to know is in your packages, so please take your time and enjoy the hospitality of the college, and we'll see you both later."

Waiting until they were well away from the reception committee, Grace kept her eyes focused forward as she spoke.

"Did you arrange for us to be in a different part of the building than the others?" she asked. "Or is it purely coincidental?"

"Never trust a coincidence," Mycroft squeezed her fingers lightly against his inner arm. "Of course I arranged it."

"Care to enlighten me as to why?"

"There's little point walking into a trap if there's no opportunity for it to be sprung," he sounded perfectly calm and unruffled.

"So not only are we waiting for an ambush at any time, you've actually arranged it so that the ambushers will have an easy job?" Grace pondered the logic of the idea for a few moments. "And why do we want to make it easy for them to jump us?" It didn't sound exactly safe. Her pulse flickered with a flash of anxiety.

"The less fuss and bother, the fewer people will know and the more contained the fallout," he said, stopping in the shadow of a massive oak door, turning to face her, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Plus my driver will be joining us as one of the other guests later this evening. There will be several of my people in the vicinity at all times; nothing has been left to chance."

"Is your driver really a driver?" Grace was reluctant to ask, but felt she may as well know everything.

"When he's not busy being an international assassin and spy, yes, of course he's my driver," Mycroft looked down at her, a smile appearing on his face. "You said you'd trust me."

Meeting a pair of dark-blue eyes that gave away nothing and yet seemed to tell her everything she needed, she blinked slowly. "If I end up dead after all this, you'd better not believe in ghosts," she said eventually.

"My dear Doctor Chandler," his voice was warm as his fingers brushed the side of her face, smoothing down a wisp of hair. "Neither of us is going to end up dead, so please relax and look as if you're enjoying yourself," he said. "This is supposed to be an entertaining diversion from our usual, humdrum lives. I have no idea who may be watching us at this very moment, and other than locating the nearest bottle of decently aged champagne for you, you are simply going to have to go with the flow, as it were," he said, leaning forward and kissing her softly.

Instant heat stung her face as she felt his lips graze hers slowly and deliberately, a warm shiver between her shoulder blades as she let him tease her with his mouth, strangely enjoying the tranquillity of such unexpected intimacy. Closing her eyes, she sighed, leaning into the kiss only to find herself almost immediately abandoned, a faint murmur of laughter between them as his hand slid along the line of her jaw.

"Feeling a little more relaxed?"

Squinting open one eye, she regarded him with a faintly acerbic expression. "You are no gentleman," she muttered.

"_Au contraire_, my dear," he smiled widely, taking her hand and ushering her through the door. "I am an adorable man, you have said so yourself many times," his voice was slightly heightened, as if he were speaking for the benefit of any others who might be in the vicinity.

"Then, adorable man," Grace grinned, holding his hand in hers. "Let me show you my old school."

Before taking the grand tour, Mycroft wanted a swift word with his driver who was not only a very good driver indeed, but also one of his more ... _versatile_ operatives. By the time they found their way to the weekend's accommodation, the man was standing in a classically-furnished living room, looking out through a large and ornate opened window.

"Perdue."

Turning and nodding as he saw them enter. "All clear, sir," he said, handing over the door key. "No unexpected guests," he added, waving a palm-sized black box.

"No bugs," Mycroft translated for her. "I wanted to be sure before we spoke openly," he looked thoughtfully at his man. "Pleasant views?" he asked.

"In an emergency it would be entirely feasible to jump out of this particular view, sir," Perdue leaned out through the open portion and looked down. "See for yourself."

Taking the man's place by the open glass, Mycroft did as suggested and looked down. The river was right below them; this set of rooms faced directly onto the Cam.

"Excellent," Mycroft sounded well-pleased. "Exactly as I requested; the team has done well. Who's on station this weekend?"

"Granger and I will be arriving in about an hour's time after I've left the Jag in a secured garage; she actually was a student here, so no problem there," the man purporting to be Mycroft's driver packed his little gadget away, rolling it up in a roll of black fabric and tucking it into an inside pocket. "And I believe Delacey and Harris may already be here; they left London before we did."

"Interesting," Mycroft looked momentarily amused. "And how are they going to play things?"

"To the hilt, I believe," Perdue lifted his eyebrows and grinned easily. "I think they intend to offer a distraction if one is ever needed."

"Delacey and Harris?" Grace raised her own eyebrows.

"Two of my more creative operatives," Mycroft sounded vaguely amused. "Lois Delacey and Christine Harris. It seems they intend to make themselves a target for gossip."

Grace had no idea what he was talking about.

"Apart from being female," he tilted his head "It appears they are both pining for the stage, by the sound of things. Fortunately they are superb at their work, for which I am manifestly thankful," he added.

"What is their work?" Grace knew how the white rabbit must have felt when he headed down the endless tunnel.

"Whatever it needs to be," Mycroft turned back to the open window, actually admiring the view this time. "This is a most beautiful piece or architecture," he spoke, almost to himself as he inspected the vaulted high ceiling and tall, diamond-paned windows. "The equal of Magdalen without a doubt."

"I've left the bags in there. Sir," Perdue indicated the adjoining bedroom with a tip of his head. "I'd better get a move on if I'm to ditch the car and meet up with Granger in time to be back here in an hour, so if there's nothing else for the moment?"

"I shall locate the two lovebirds before dinner and ensure everyone is clear the primary security focus is Doctor Chandler here," he said. "I, in the role of Robert Allen, will be a secondary target, so all eyes on ..?"

"Reader, sir."

"All eyes on _Reader_, indeed," Mycroft nodded as the man walked silently back through the entrance, closing the door behind him. He gave another half-smile at her puzzled look. "Your codename is quite apposite," he smiled properly, taking her hand in his. "And now, my lovely companion, what say we investigate the bedroom?"

Trailing behind, Grace found herself suddenly in the next room, similar in size and shape to the one just vacated, although it was clear that this one served a very different purpose.

Central to the room was an ornate bed with a vast array of antique carving both at the foot and the head. A veritable forest of carved branches and leaves and birds both on the wing and perched, coyly waiting for nightfall.

The bed was also so high from the ground that Grace found her feet dangling when she climbed up on it. "If there's another mattress under the bed, I wouldn't be at all surprised," she said. "This thing is huge. Plenty of room for us both."

Mycroft tore his eyes away from the intricate carving to assess her expression. She seemed perfectly genuine.

"The bed is all yours," he said. "I won't require sleep tonight, so please don't concern yourself about my comfort," he looked towards the window where a large, chintzed armchair occupied a space between the door and an occasional table with reading lamp. "I'll take the chair while you sleep," he added. "There's a small bathroom through there, I believe," he waved at a second closed door in the corner.

Their bags were perched at the bottom of the bed, at least the bag that she recalled packing was there.

Right beside a zipped dress-case that she had never seen before. Looking, she saw Mycroft's bag was accompanied by an equally anonymous suit-bag. Apparently, a change of dress-plan was anticipated.

"And this is..?" she laid her hand on the long black cover laid carefully over the end of the bed.

Mycroft lifted the companion-bag of the side of the bed nearest him. "Our dinner attire, I believe," he smiled helpfully. "They did say black tie was expected."

"But not compulsory," Grace started to unzip the cover. "Besides, I've already packed something to wear to dinner tonight."

"But not quite like this, I think," Mycroft's case revealed an arresting jet-black dinner jacket and trousers which he hung on a convenient carved promontory of the bed.

Investigating the contents of her own surprise package, Grace found herself with a handful of dark silk, eventually revealing itself to be a hanger displaying a couturier gown in the exact same storm-blue colours of her bedroom. With slender ribbon- straps, the dress was cut low at the back and very carefully fitted through the waist down into a swirling froth at the knee-length hemline.

It was a seriously striking outfit.

And there was absolutely no way she was going to wear it.

"This is far too dramatic for a college reunion," she said, laying the gown back on the bed. "Plus that colour would make my skin stand out like a lighthouse beacon; I'd never buy anything like that to wear by choice," she turned to look at him. "I don't know why you've organised it, but no thank you, not for me," she added, opening her own case and extracting a much simpler yet still attractive dark copper frock, with a gentler neckline and elbow-length sleeves.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "There is a perfectly good reason for you to wear the dress," he began.

"And I am sure it will have something to do with my security or the mission, or whatever rationale you think will sound the most acceptable to me, but I did not ask you to pick out my clothes and I am choosing not to wear it, so please can we drop the subject?"

Walking across to where she was standing, he leaned over, lifting the hanger and gown in one movement, he held it out beside her.

"It's a beautiful gown and will look spectacular on you," he met her eyes.

Grace folded her arms and pinched her mouth.

"You look incredible in these colours," he added. "I've seen you."

"Where..? _Ah_," she nodded as realisation dawned. Of course, he'd been inside her bedroom. "Having a room this colour and wearing it out in public is an entirely different thing," she said, shaking her head. "The answer's still no."

He moved closer, so close, she had to tip her head back to see his eyes.

"You said you'd trust me." _Mine to protect._

Her eyes widened at his tone.

"I said I would trust you with my life ... but that has nothing to do with my ..." she stopped as he lowered his face closer to her own.

"Then _trust_ me," he sighed the words, his eyes dark and fierce and implacable.

Grace felt paralysed by his nearness, by this, the slightest unveiling of his true inner self; her entire body responding to the animalistic force emanating from the man mere inches away. She felt her eyes drift shut and her mind grow wonderfully calm; not like before, when he'd kissed her for show, but a deep, aching stillness that rendered movement impossible and unwanted. _I trust you._

"_Alpha_."

His intake of breath was sharp and distinct. Opening her eyes, she saw he was still only inches from her, his face a confusion of expression and intent. If he moved a fraction closer, neither of them would be leaving the bedroom tonight.

"Please wear the dress; it might mean your life," he murmured.

"You want me to wear it that much?" Grace could feel his breath on her skin.

"I do," he blinked slowly.

"Then I will wear it because you said please," she felt the heat of him all the way down to her feet.

###

He had insisted she keep her fingers curled into the crook of his elbow all the time.

"Either that, or we could hold hands," he said. "But that's possibly a little too obvious and unnatural, given your advanced age."

"My _what?_" she turned on him, a look of astonished disbelief across her face.

"And that's much better," he nodded approval. "Much less insipid and fake," he said. "We're supposed to be a happy couple enjoying a visit at your _Alma Mater_, not plodding around waiting for the sky to fall on our heads."

"You may be used to the idea of men with guns out to get you," Grace allowed him to return her hand to his arm. "But I'm not quite so blasé about the whole thing."

"There are no men with guns out to get either of us, here," Mycroft sounded supremely confident. "Not even the most enthusiastic assassin would attempt a hit at this particular moment, bearing in mind they do not necessarily want you dead, but alive and happily answering their questions."

"And that sounds so very much better, of course," she sighed. "I have your word on this?"

"My word of honour," he patted her hand. "Now, can you _possibly_ try and relax a little?"

Taking a long, deep breath, Grace gave in to the inevitable. It was true; she had felt a knot tightening inside her since they'd arrived and, despite his ... creative attempts to get her to stop worrying, she had been looking over her shoulder since walking through the door.

And now they were out in one of the formal gardens, supposedly enjoying the last of the afternoon's sunshine while Mycroft tracked down his other two operatives.

"You want me to behave as if nothing was wrong and as if you were Robert?" Grace wanted to be absolutely sure what was expected.

"Exactly that," his eyes scanned the several small groups of people in sight within the garden confines. "Be yourself."

"Then I think I'd like a glass of champagne," she smiled up at him, pointing to a white-linened table in the shade of a grand old tree. A waiter was serving flutes of bubbly to anyone who wanted one.

"It's probably not Dom Perignon," she said, "but that's Henry-the-Fifth's Royal Oak and it's a tradition to toast to success and friendship beneath its boughs," she added. "Will you?"

"For you, darling, anything," he smiled at another couple walking in the opposite direction.

Heading over to the table, Mycroft collected two glasses of the fizzy wine, handing one over to Grace. "To the success of things close to the heart," he said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.

He sounded so serious and so sincere, Grace fancied for a second that it really was Robert speaking and she swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat.

"Things close to the heart," she repeated, sipping the icy-cold wine and feeling a weight leave her. Looking into a pair of blue eyes she smiled her first real smile in days.

He watched her face change from merely pretty to glorious, and wondered how he ever imagined her beauty to be ordinary. He felt the same feathery touch he'd felt before and smiled back.

"Hello, there," a female voice interrupted the moment. "So which one of you is the interloper?"

Turning, Grace saw two women waiting a few feet away, a similarly amused expression on both their faces.

"That would be me," Mycroft straightened, offering his hand. "Robert Allen, and my lovely hostess, Grace Chandler," he said, tilting his half-empty glass in her direction.

"Sara Duckworth," the speaker nodded. "And my partner, Jessica Deakin."

"And which one of _you_ is the interloper?" Grace shook their hands and kept smiling.

"That would be me," the partner, Jessica Deakin stepped closer sipping from her own glass of champagne. "Sara tells me this is called the King's Tree and everyone at this college worships it a little bit. Is that true?"

Looking up into the topmost branches, Grace smiled again and nodded. "It's over five-hundred years old and grew up with the college," she said, looking at Mycroft. "It's a special place for all of us."

"Shall we see you at dinner?" he joined the conversation, looking particularly at the woman calling herself Sara Duckworth, though he knew her more usually as Christine Harris.

"I'd say that would be a given," she nodded. "Is there anything you recommend we look at before then?" she held his eyes and sipped her wine.

"The architecture around here is phenomenal," Mycroft gestured around the college grounds. I'd be very interested to know what the view is like from the rooftops."

"Funnily enough, that was something Jessica was curious about, too," Sara grinned. "I may have to take her up there and show her the view. It will be so romantic."

"Perhaps you could tell us what you see at dinner?" Mycroft turned to find Grace looking at him with an odd light in her eyes. "That's why we're here, isn't it?" he smiled again. "To see what there is to see?" he reached out and slid an arm around Grace's waist, pulling her closer. _Protected_.

"It looks like I'm frocking up, so if you gals had any uncertainties about what to wear, I'd say go the whole hog," Grace smiled, leaning into Mycroft's embrace as if it were an everyday occurrence.

"We may just do that," Jessica grinned, nodding. "Sara likes to make an entrance."

"See you at dinner, then," Grace called over her shoulder as Mycroft led her away, back to the room that reminded him of Magdalen.

Refreshing herself and slipping into the thunderstorm dress in the tiny bathroom, she pulled a comb through her hair, patting it smooth and curving it beneath her jaw between her finger and thumb. Her hair, fine and pale though it as, usually behaved itself and was doing so perfectly tonight.

But looking into the mirror, Grace frowned. The dress was seriously chic; not something she'd have chosen in a hundred years. It fitted beautifully – God knows how he had gotten her measurements – and was of exceptional quality. It was just that she looked too white; her skin and hair taking on an almost pearlised sheen against the grey-blue watered silk.

Fortunately her lipstick, a dark red, still worked, but she had nothing else to wear with the dress that wouldn't look out of place. She had no scarf, no jewellery, not even a hair-band that might look as if she'd actually put any thought into the outfit. Not even her shoes were going to match. She shook her head.

The first dinner gong sounded.

Exiting the bathroom, she didn't bother looking for Mycroft, knowing he'd be in the room somewhere. "This isn't going to work," she called out. "I still look like Cinderella and I'd rather not make quite such a spectacle of myself," she added, already pulling out her first choice of dress.

Walking back into the bedroom, tying his black bow-tie, he paused, taking in her _ensemble_.

"Did you look in the lower compartment of the bag?" he asked. "It's not only the dress," he strode to the bed, lifting the empty cover until a small, separate section lay on the bed. Unzipping it, he revealed two additional boxes.

One was the size of a shoebox, the other much smaller and flatter.

"Here, sit," he pointed to the chair by the window, waiting until she was comfortable before opening the larger box to reveal a pair of low courts in the same silk as the dress with the trademark red soles of Louboutin. Gesturing for her foot, he knelt down, slding the shoe on until it slipped neatly over her heel. "That should fit properly," he said. "My people checked your details very carefully."

Lifting up her other foot and waggling her toes, Grace invited him to continue the Prince Charming routine. Raising an eyebrow at her faint hauteur, he nevertheless did as she was obviously expecting, helping her to her feet once she was completely shod.

Of course, they fitted.

And then there was the smaller box. She eyed it suspiciously as he picked it up, depressing the opening stud and turning the contents around for her inspections.

She sat back down again.

A heavy and ornate necklace of black opal in solid silver dangled from his fingers. The stone wasn't exactly black, but more a rich grey, streaked with vibrant lines of blue and white and gold. Stormclouds in lightning.

"Am I to stand here all evening?" he sounded mildly amused as she stood, waiting as his long fingers fastened the clasp behind her head. "I assume you'll know what to do with these?" he asked, handing over two dangly earrings of the same material.

Walking to the nearest mirror, Grace fumbled with the clips, until they sat properly. And then she stared at the result.

The dark glowing silk threw her fair skin and hair into sharp relief, while the jewellery added a level of sophistication that dried her mouth.

"I believe you'll do," Mycroft leaned against the doorjamb, waiting for her to surface from her reverie. "You _shall_ go to the ball, Cinders."

"I look like I should be heading off to a night of grand opera," she turned back and forth in front of the mirror, admiring her different appearance. "I feel distinctly overdressed."

Coming to stand in front of her, he wore a faint frown, as if he'd just noticed something out of place. "You look precisely the way you need to look tonight," he said, "all except your hair."

"What's the matter with my hair?" Grace turned back to the mirror. There was nothing wrong with it. "It's perfectly fine."

"The problem, exactly," Mycroft looked thoughtful. "It's too well-behaved. It needs to be ... wilder."

"Wilder?" it was her turn to frown.

"More like this," his fingers raked through the blonde sweep until the satin-smooth cap became a rumpled torrent of gold. "Shake your head," he instructed.

Sighing, Grace did as she was bade, wondering how this was part of any plan. It seemed unlikely.

"Better," Mycroft nodded as she turned back to the mirror.

"I look like I've just got out of bed," she announced flatly.

"You look like you've just been thoroughly kissed," he corrected her.

She looked again. He was right.

"And this is important, why?" Grace was already tempted to correct the worst of his excesses. He saw, and held her fingers down.

"Because I want every single eye on you from the second we go into the Grand Hall," he said, his face hardening with purpose. "I want you to stand out from every other woman in that room tonight," he said. "I intend to ensure you have as many watchers as can possibly be arranged so that, every moment you are away from my side, people will notice you; notice when you're with them, notice your absence when you are somewhere else," he nodded. "Everyone is going to be watching you at dinner; the men because you are stunningly desirable, and the women because they will either unreservedly admire or entirely censure your appearance; the one thing nobody will be able to do is _ignore_ you."

"Oh," she held her breath for a few seconds, his eyes were dark with intent. "This is your additional security?"

"I promised to keep you safe," he said, lifting her fingers to his mouth so that he could brush the skin with his lips. _Mine to protect._

_Mine ... to protect_.

"_Omega_," he whispered.

The second dinner gong sounded.

"We should go," Grace felt the same breathless sensation as in the car, felt her pulse throb down to her fingertips. "It would be rude to be late for the festivities."

"Lead on," he smiled down at her. "I am yours for the night."

She was glad he couldn't see her face.


	4. Chapter 4: Futile Struggles of Fate

**Futile Struggles of Fate**

_New Friends, Old Enemies – Keeping Up Appearances – An Uncontested Sovereignty – A Matter of Instinct._

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"_Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua,_" the Senior Fellow kept grace purposefully short and everyone sat. There were easily over a hundred people dining in Hall tonight, even without counting the Masters and Fellows at the High Table. The enormous, wood-panelled chamber was ablaze with chandeliers high above their heads, as well as glintingly polished candelabras of old silver located strategically on the long tables. Had the weather been inclement, the three huge fireplaces on either of the long sides of the room would have been stacked with flaming logs, but as it was the early part of summer, the temperature was warm enough to do without even a jacket. Between the candelabras on the tables were low silver bowls of elegantly-arranged roses and honeysuckle from the college gardens and crisply uniformed waiting staff stood ready by each table, ensuring that the crystal glasses would always be filled and that the guests – the well-paying and hopefully, very generously-inclined guests – lacked for nothing.

Upon each plate setting was a small, ornately-written menu. Though the choices were limited, each item had been meticulously chosen for quality and its ability to please the largest number of diners. A string quartet in evening dress held sway by the entrance of the hall, filling the air with the satisfying baroque melodies of Bach, Handel and Vivaldi.

It was a glorious evening of pomp and circumstance that old British universities did so very well.

Though seated between diners on either side, there was sufficient space between them all for a more or less private level of conversation, although absolute privacy was impossible. Mycroft was, as protocol dictated, seated directly across one of the long tables from Grace, all the better, he thought, to be able to see anyone and everyone who might take an unusual interest in his dining partner. Waiting until their champagne flutes had been filled, he leaned forward, raising his glass.

"To the most beautiful woman I know," he offered, smiling as she looked up uncertainly, until an echoing smile lifted her mouth. She stared back, her gaze seized by the warmth of his expression; even though she knew the man watching her was merely playing a part and saying these things for the benefit of others. He was a convincing actor.

The candlelight lent her an ethereal quality, he saw, glowing from the long curves of her bare arms and shoulders, highlighting the fine cords of her neck, the ligaments of her wrists and fingers. The shadows of her throat and the curves of her face. Everything about her seemed enhanced in the gentle light and he saw that Grace Chandler truly was beautiful, the knowledge a strange and growing pressure in his chest as she kept her gaze centred firmly on him.

She smiled again.

"You look pretty sensational yourself," she sipped her wine, the line of her neck gleaming in the candles' golden flame as she leaned away, assessing the breadth of his shoulders. "You have the height to look superb in dark formalwear and that," she dipped her glass towards him and his suit, "is about as fabulously formal as I can recall seeing," she picked up her menu, her fair eyebrows rising in pleasure. "Oh, how lovely."

"Pleased by the thought of a decent dinner?" a touch of amusement curled the corner of him mouth as he looked down at the card in front of him. The college had spared no expense, it seemed, and even though each of the participants on this weekend reunion had paid a healthy amount towards the event, this was still turning out to be something beyond the usual; he could not recall anything quite as hedonistic as this at Oxford.

"I do allow other thoughts in my head apart from food, you know," she turned the hand-written menu around to face him. "Look at the quality of this calligraphy," she said, clearly transfixed by what she saw, bending her head over the ornate, deeply inked writing. Each letter was perfect in its linear exactitude, each swirl, each curve exactly and precisely faultless. "This must have taken a great deal of time to perfect," she said. "It would have taken practice before everything was as unblemished as this," she added, bringing the writing closer to her eyes for a more detailed scrutiny. "It would have been a great deal of effort; it would have been hard."

Mycroft felt a repeat of the feather-like sensation inside him. She was amusing and entertaining when she was hungry, but this new expression of fascinated captivation had him oddly riveted. He found himself waiting almost breathlessly on her next pronouncement, a heavy twist of pleasure curling around his innards as her delicate fingertips traced each curve and whorl of the dense black ink. He wondered idly how they might feel tracing the same precise lines across his skin. Heat flared in his gut at the image of her white hands sliding down his naked back as he enfolded her soft warmth beneath him in the big carved bed ...

Jolting himself out of the unbidden fantasy, he sat up a little straighter in his chair, taking a swallow of wine and allowing one of the waiters, a student of the cello, obviously, with those calluses, to top up his champagne. His bowtie felt fractionally tight and he eased the knot with a finger and thumb.

"I'd love to see what else this person has done," Grace was still transported by the calligraphy, as she looked up, her expression rapt and animated. "Whoever it is has a definite future in the conservation arts if they wanted one."

He wanted to dismiss her enthusiasm as naïve and unimportant, but he couldn't. Grace Chandler had been born with a visionary eye and the heart of a crusader; she was a textbook case of the archetypal Omega. And there was something incredibly appealing about that knowledge, something _right_ about her being exactly what she was that warmed him inside and out. It was bizarre and he couldn't quite fathom it, so Mycroft took a relaxing breath and turned his mind back to the reason they were in Cambridge, and about to sit here, in public, and eat a sumptuous meal.

"Have you seen anyone you know yet?" he asked, toying between the hot pumpkin mousse and the cream of asparagus soup as an entrée.

"Mmm?" Grace was still poring over the menu as his question sank in. "Ah," she lifted a finger back over her shoulder towards the far side of the hall. "There's a couple of people I think I recognise over there," she said. "I'll pop over and say hello after we've finished eating."

"Which ones?" he was only faintly curious, but any distraction now was probably a sensible thing to encourage.

"The blonde-haired woman in the gold top, next to the tall man who looks like a rugby-player," she waved another aimless finger over her shoulder. "Fairly sure that's Carol Williams; she and I used to row as a pair, for a while, and I think I know him too," she paused, about to say something else but changing her mind.

"What?" Mycroft caught the hesitation. "What are you not saying?"

Grace looked across the table into a face set with interest.

"If it's who I think it is, then the man is Devlin Rawl; he studied architectural engineering," she sipped her drink.

"And?" there was more, clearly.

"And we went out together a few times," she added, meeting his eyes above the rim of her glass.

_Mine to protect_.

"Interesting," Mycroft nodded slowly, his line of vision now encompassing that far side of the room. "Would he remember you?"

"Oh, I think he might," Grace tried hard but failed to quash the small grin that curved her lips.

"You were lovers?" he kept his voice light.

"We were single, healthy and under-twenty-five; what do you think?" and now her grin was unashamedly visible. "It didn't last long; I was never in his league, but it was fun while it did."

Mycroft observed the well-built man across the room, relaxed in his obviously tailored dinner jacket. Even from this distance, the number of heavy gold rings on his hands spoke of excess, while the florid ostentation of his pocket-square illuminated a profligate and quite possibly degenerate lifestyle. Sipping the chilled champagne, Mycroft felt an immediate and involuntary dislike for the man.

"You rowed?"

"Only for a couple of seasons," Grace looked up as the waiter brought her a dish of tiny crisp Thai spring rolls, the fragrance of cooked ginger and coriander making her stomach gurgle. "It was more a fun than serious; got us into the same pubs as the boys," she paused, grinning again, before trying one of the hot and spicy Asian delicacies, closing her eyes with pleasure. "How's the soup?"

"Very pleasant," Mycroft found his gaze wandering back to the couple on the far side of the room. "Tell me about Devlin Rawl," he said, nibbling a piece of walnut bread.

"Devlin?" Grace sat back, thinking. "Comes from Irish stock, his family have money in a whisky distillery near Dublin, if I remember correctly," she frowned. "After he and I went our separate ways, there was a bit of a scandal; something to do with a fight at a club. But it all seemed to go away without a lot of fuss. Other than that," she smiled at the young man who was refilling her glass, "there's not much to tell."

"Scandal, eh?" Mycroft added the information to the already-formed assessment of her ex-lover. Wealthy, arrogant; scion of a powerful family employing a large number of people, probably able to wield significant local political clout. Liked throwing his weight around in every sense of the word. A thug and a bully, particularly against those too weak to retaliate. A user of people, of women. It was as well that Grace had gone her own way; she would not like the man Rawl had become since their university days. Despite her eternal optimism, she would soon have felt his misogynistic rage had they remained together.

The thought of her vulnerable at the hands of this man made his breathing run very slow; he felt his mouth move into a thin line. He would speak to this Devlin Rawl before the weekend was out.

"And there's one or two others who look vaguely familiar," Grace sat back, her plate already cleared. "I'll find them later ..." she paused. "If it's safe, I mean," she looked at him a little hesitant, and he was glad of it.

Better she check with him before vanishing into the dark passageways and hidden rooms of this magnificent building. Better she look to him for her shelter tonight than anyone else.

_Mine to protect._

"Hello _again_," in the interval between courses, people had already begun to move around, hailing old friends. Sara Duckworth pulled a spare chair between Grace and her neighbour, waving an empty champagne flute in the air. It was quickly filled by a helpful servitor. "Have you had a lovely look around the old place yet?"

"I have seen many wondrous things," Mycroft kept a totally straight face. "How was the view from the rooftops?"

"Picturesque," La Duckworth waved her glass in the air again, a sublime smile spreading across her face. "Not a soul in the world to see anything that goes on up there," she grinned wickedly. "Jessica was quite carried away by it all. One could do almost anything on the roof and never be found out," she added more quietly.

"And is it secure?" his words were barely audible, even though Grace was listening specifically for them.

"Unless one had a helicopter at one's disposal," Sara sipped her wine, smiling as Jessica walked over from their seats.

"Hello, you two," the younger woman grinned happily, enjoying the evening. She perched on the arm of Sara's chair, laying a gentle arm across her shoulders. "Are we disturbing anything?"

"Not us," Grace toasted them with her glass that seemed exceptionally empty. The matter was swiftly remedied by a nearby waiter.

"You're looking remarkably gorgeous tonight, if I might be so personal," Sara was staring at her, taking in the dark blue silks and astonishing jewellery. "Everyone has been looking at you," she added. "I've seen them."

"Probably wondering why I'm done up like a dog's dinner," Grace smiled and looked faintly embarrassed. "It wasn't actually my idea, if you can believe that."

"Really?" Sara sipped from her glass and glanced across at her boss. He met her eyes without the slightest quail. "Can't imagine why anyone would want to see you dazzlingly bedecked in the candlelight," she smiled up at her purported girlfriend. "Shall I introduce you to some easily shockable people?" she asked.

"Sounds like a plan," Jessica's tone was dry as her eyes flicked between her boss and the luminously beautiful blonde sitting opposite. "Enjoy the rest of the evening," she winked roguishly, walking away with her arm around her friend's waist.

"You see how my staff abuse my friendly and charitable nature," Mycroft followed the two women with his eyes as they walked together to a point not ten feet from Devlin Rawl and the woman in the gold top. He resisted the urge to smile; watching people stare at Grace Chandler was not all they had been doing.

"I am getting the very strong impression your bark may be vastly worse than your bite," she said, leaning forward, waving her glass at him. "I wonder what your enemies would say?"

Allowing his eyelids to droop a little he tweaked an eyebrow. "You assume I have enemies?" he was amused.

"I can't imagine someone like you without at least one or two of them," her voice took on an assessing note.

"You assume I have _living_ enemies?" he let a smile curve one side of his mouth as he enjoyed flirting with her. Honesty cost him nothing.

"Do you dance?" Grace put her glass down suddenly. "The information package said there'd be dancing later. If you were interested, that is."

About to ponder what kind of dance music might be playing, Mycroft paused, watching a large, well-dressed man approach their section of the table. Apparently, he would not have to wait as long as he had imagined to speak with Devlin Rawl.

"_Gracie?_" the interloper's voice was unnecessarily loud and several frowning faces turned his way to prove it. "It _is_," he cackled delightedly. "It really _is_ you, Grace," ignoring Mycroft, he plonked himself down in the chair Sara had dragged over, pulling the arm of Grace's chair around so he could see her more clearly. "How the bloody hell are you, darling?" he moved closer as if to kiss her, but she leaned away.

"Hello, Devlin," Grace met a bright blue-green gaze in a still-handsome face, although it was easy to see the years since their last meeting had not been kind to him. His skin was flushed an unhealthy pink and at this proximity, his beguiling Irish eyes were clearly bloodshot and vaguely haggard. He'd also added substantially to his weight and only exceptional tailoring enabled him to maintain a streamlined impression.

"My God, you're even more gorgeous than you were back as an undergraduate," he leaned in closer, his fingers almost brushing the bare skin of her shoulder.

Leaning even further away from the heavy whiff of scotch on his breath, Grace lifted a hand towards Mycroft. "This is Robert Allen," she said courteously. "My partner."

Mycroft watched the man over his steepled fingers; he nodded fractionally. "Grace wondered if she remembered you," he said, turning with a gentle smile in her direction. "Do you, darling?" he asked, guilelessly.

"This is Devlin Rawl, Robert," she kept a perfectly straight face. "He and I were good friends back in the day."

"More than _just_ good friends, eh, Gracie?" Rawl wrapped a fleshy hand around her upper arm.

Mycroft sucked in a soft breath and cleared his throat, his eyes widening slightly.

"Ah, _sorry_, old man," Rawl patted Grace's arm. "Didn't mean to trespass on your property," he laughed openly as she pulled away from him in irritation.

"It's not his arm you're pawing, Devlin," she murmured. "And I never was anyone's property."

"Course not, sweetie," Rawl rested his hand on the arm of her chair, not exactly touching, but not exactly moving away. "Don't want to upset any applecarts tonight, now do I?" he laughed again, attempting to catch a golden tendril of her hair with his finger.

"Robert's a lawyer," she leaned away again. "What are you doing these days?"

"Oh, I'm running the family business out of Dublin," Rawl sounded openly self-satisfied. "A whisky distillery," he said. "Just a small affair," he added airily, for Mycroft's sake. "We probably don't net more than a couple of mil a year, but it's an honest crust and keeps the locals happy," he smiled lazily. "What sort of a lawyer are you, then?" he asked, indifferently.

Leaning slowly forward, his fingers still steepled, Mycroft smiled. It was not a friendly smile, not did it reach beyond his mouth. Dark eyes met the hazy blue ones of Devlin Rawl.

"I work in Corporate law," he said, mildly. "I'm the sort of lawyer who takes small family affairs, usually netting around a couple of mil a year, and I break them up and sell them to the Chinese," he said, still smiling. "The Asian market is rather fond of whisky distilleries," he added, smiling a little harder, a glint of teeth showing. "Especially Irish ones."

The complacent arrogance dropped away from Rawl's face leaving behind the faint flush of affront. "Think you're a smug fuck, don'tcha?" the Irish brogue thickened with incipient anger. "Think you're better'n me?"

The timbre of his words. The emphasis in each syllable. Mycroft blinked slowly. _Devlin Rawl was an Alpha._

"Devlin, for _goodness_ sake ..." Grace traced fingers across her eyes.

"It's been lovely to meet you, Mr Rawl," Mycroft leaned back in his seat, the same benign cast to his face. "Don't let us keep you from your enchanting companion."

Despite himself, Rawl couldn't resist looking over his shoulder. The blonde in the gold top was standing, her arms crossed over her chest, a look of clear discomfort on her face.

Getting to his feet, the Irishman grinned down. "Fuck the English," he laughed unsteadily. "Fuck the lot o'yers," he turned and walked unevenly back to his own seat.

In such civilised surrounds, even such poor behaviour as Rawl's went entirely unremarked by anyone within earshot, but Grace felt her face warm with embarrassment.

Mycroft smiled as the waiter chose that precise moment to bring in the _chateaubriande_ he'd ordered. "Did you opt for the rabbit or the polenta, my dear?" he smiled readily, nodding as a second waiter held up a bottle of very good burgundy.

She wasn't sure how openly admiring she should be. After managing to upset Devlin Rawl in a single breath, someone who always prided himself on _doing_ the upsetting, Mycroft looked like a schoolboy who'd just found a bird's nest full of baby chicks. Something inside her applauded so hard she felt sure he would notice.

"You didn't feel that?" she asked, eventually.

"Feel what?" Mycroft waited as his glass was filled. "What, darling?"

"That sense of _pressure_, like a weight when Devlin spoke?" Grace leaned back as her main course of baked rabbit and leek tarte was laid before her. "Or is that something only an ..." she stopped, an old sense of caution impeding her words. "That only _I_ might notice?"

"I sense many things," he said, tasting the dark red wine and nodding a distinct approval. "Though probably not the same things as ... you," he nodded at her plate. "Might I suggest a Pinot noir with that?" he offered. Whoever had organised the wine for this evening's dinner had raided an excellent cellar in order to do so.

His _savoir-faire_ was magnificent and impossible to resist. So she stopped trying.

"And what are you sensing right now?" Grace paused in the appraisal of her dinner and met his eyes with an unexpected and unwavering gaze.

Mycroft looked at her. There was no deception here, no attempt to hide or even disguise the thoughts that were so clearly displayed in her face. Grace Chandler was impressed and a little confused and strangely intrigued. She was genuinely drawn to him and not the least uncomfortable in letting him see it. She knew he was an Alpha and yet she was still signalling a clear interest in him. Omegas didn't do that, not unless ...

He had asked for her complete trust, but he hadn't anticipated this; this complicated matters. He could neither leave her side nor act in any way that might be seen to rebuff her attraction, not in his current role as her companion and lover. He would have to maintain the appearance of a genuine relationship despite the fact that it could not possibly become that ... he could _not_ afford to form any kind of association with Grace Chandler. It would not be safe; such a liaison would put them both in peril ... if he were to be distracted by her ...

_Omega_.

_Mine to protect_.

He sipped his wine as his brain registered how far down that path he had already gone. He had been so mindful of her connection to Allen, so terribly conscious how little regard she had for the Alpha in _him_ ... _run away, Alpha_ ... he had given no thought to a scenario where such things might be different.

And he _should_ have because even as the knowledge settled in his mind, the situation had altered. In the few seconds it had taken him to evaluate their position, it had become something else entirely.

His heart rate fractionally and imprudently elevated, Mycroft lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, staring down into her transparent regard. She concealed nothing, made no attempt to avoid his scrutiny or assessment for good or ill, but met his examination with unreserved candour. For an Omega, she had not once evidenced the slightest nervousness around him, the very opposite, in fact.

The sight of her sitting there calmly contemplating him as more than her protector ...

An astonishing pulse of want shot through his entire body as delicate electrical shocks connected all his nerve endings. He inhaled deeply, waiting until the waiter had poured Grace some wine and left them in relative peace.

"I sense potential disaster," he said, finally. "This would be an inconceivably bad idea for the both of us."

"I agree," Grace found her wine and drank, grateful for something _anything_ to do. "I cannot imagine a worse time than now to be thinking what I find myself thinking," she looked away, her appetite suddenly gone.

"Then can we concur that any action on our parts in the furtherance of such a notion should be resisted and constrained?" his words were quiet but intent.

"I think that would be the right thing to do," she swallowed hard, nodding down at her plate.

The silence between them lasted eight heartbeats. Grace counted each one as it bounced around inside her chest.

"Are you always so unconvincing a liar?" there was real amusement in his voice and she looked up at him, breath catching in her lungs at the light in his eyes. He was leaning back in his seat, wine in hand, a vague smile curving his mouth. "Well done. You have just succeeded in making my work enormously more complicated," he sighed in a long-suffering way, picking up his knife and fork and slicing into his steak. "How's the rabbit?"

###

A number of large and equally wood-panelled rooms, each with its own small bar and each immediately adjacent to the Great Hall had been set aside for after-dinner activities. In one, several large photoboards had been variously located, each carrying enlarged pictures of the weekend's attendees; some of them giving rise to a great deal of raucous laughter. In another room, there were casual circles of comfortable leather chairs and coffee tables set aside for people to reacquaint themselves with old friends and perhaps make some new ones. In yet a third, there was now a jazz quartet, the room having numerous small tables around the walls leaving the centre free and dimly lit for dancing.

Leaving all such attractions aside for the time being, Mycroft pulled Grace out through a convenient set of French windows into the cooling evening air, leading her somewhat away from the open pathways, towards a secluded pergola and rose-hidden bench, the soft fragrance of the velvet petals brushing her bare skin.

By the time his fingers pulled her to sit, her heart was thundering in her ears and her throat was desperately dry. Unsure whether she was getting so worked up because she was terrified he was going to start something right here and now, or terrified that he wasn't, Grace found herself trying to breathe without shaking and making an absolute idiot of herself. Since she appeared to have regressed to the self-consciousness of her teen years, it wasn't easy.

Mycroft's fingers lifted to touch her arm as he moved closer. Even in the dim light, she could see his curious expression. "You're trembling," he observed. "Are you cold?"

"Not cold," she took a jagged breath and exhaled, slowly and deliberately relaxing against the warmth of his hand. "Feeling unexpectedly vulnerable."

Although the presence of her so close undercut his resolve to keep their alliance free of entanglement, he had still been prepared to walk a line between a cool acknowledgement of her interest and a slightly warmer, though still _safe_ appreciation of her acting skills. Such an innocent confession of her predicament blew his notions of _safe_ away like leaves in an Autumn gale. He had a sudden yen to see just how unguarded she was; would it make her more or less desirable? Would she tremble in his arms? How would she respond to his touch? An abrupt scorch of desire sent his heart rate skywards yet again.

Her perfume filled his head and Mycroft Holmes knew he was going to the devil. "_My God_," there was a trace of amazement in his voice as he leaned forward spontaneously and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth with the merest brush of sensation before sitting back, waiting as her emotions calmed. His own breathy intake of air seemed loud in the still night and he had the strangest urge to laugh, though at what or at whom, he had no idea; himself, probably. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or concerned that I have such an effect," he said, lifting an unruly blonde curl away from her face.

Catching his fingers with her own, Grace knew only she had to kiss him while he was still smiling. Leaning into him, she found his lips with her own, pressing against the slight dryness of his skin, brushing his mouth with the tip of her tongue, demanding a response, pushing for a reaction.

Murmuring softly, he found himself returning the kiss without conscious thought, sliding a hand through her rumpled blonde locks to hold her close while he took his time, bringing her tight to his chest and keeping her there as he wrapped himself around her, blending different parts of the embrace into something altogether more effective.

For a first attempt, it wasn't all that bad, Grace felt, as her breathing lost some of its frantic quality and her pulse settled down from its raging gallop to a more sedate canter.

"Better," he whispered, brushing the tip of her nose with his own. "This will reinforce our cover story if anyone sees us," he added, stroking the line of her jaw with the side of his face.

The faint scratchiness of his skin had her pulse back in the fast lane. "What cover story?" she breathed unevenly. "The one where you and I act the part of lovers?" she groaned softly as his lips found the point where her jaw met her ear. "Or the one where we're acting like we aren't?"

He leaned away from her, his fingers trailing down the side of her face to her throat. "_That_, Doctor Chandler," he smiled, "is an excellent question with execrable timing."

Though she heard nothing, Mycroft paused all movement, lifting his head, clearly alerted by some noise.

The faint sound of footsteps grew louder, advancing down the gravelled pathway from the main building. Tensing a little, Grace felt his arm tighten around her back.

"Good to see you're keeping up appearances, sir," Christine Harris rounded the concealing hedge of early summer roses and perched on the other end of the wooden bench, crossing her legs and saluting them both with a half-empty martini glass.

"Developments?" Mycroft left his arm around Grace's back, pulling her marginally closer as he waited for his operative to report.

"Nothing that we can be sure of as yet," Harris shook her head. "We're still in the process of having all the attendees checked against every database we can think of; criminal, civil, military, Interpol and all the security agencies, as well as the red and black lists," she said, her voice low and serious. "So far, we've discovered little more than several old criminal records; a number of unpaid parking tickets and a few questionable political affiliations," Harris frowned. "Nothing so far that connects anyone here to Eastern Europe, although we're only about fifty-percent done."

"Complete the check as soon as possible," Mycroft flattened his lips. "You should also undertake a reverse correlation between Anatoly Yudin and senior officials of the GIS with all alumni present tonight; leave out nothing. There might be a family connection, a clandestine relationship, anything," he added. "I want it all, tonight."

Sucking in a short breath at the timeframe, Harris nodded in the dark. "Will do."

Checking the heavy silver hunter in his fob-pocket, Mycroft pursed his mouth. "It's now nine," he said. "I want an update before midnight," he added. "Perdue can make next contact."

"Sir," his agent stood as a second pair of footsteps approached.

"Sara?" Jessica Deakin, or rather, Lois Delacey, rounded the corner into the shadow of the pergola. "_Ah_," she smiled, seeing everyone. "Everything okay?"

"All the better now you're here," Christine reverted to character, sliding an arm around her girlfriend's waist. "Shall we return to the bright lights of civilisation and leave these two love-birds to their lascivious lecheries?"

"Somewhat excessive, Ms Duckworth?" Mycroft's voice was mild.

"English Lit major," Christine's quiet laughter floated back as she walked away. "Occupational hazard ..."

And they were alone again.

"Well, then," he said, a single finger returning to stroke the round smoothness of her bare shoulder. "Whatever shall we do with ourselves for the rest of the evening?"

The touch of him on her skin left a trail of heat and she knew they couldn't stay out here or she would go mad. "You never told me if you dance or not," Grace leaned into his warmth, smiling. "I do."

"And you are prepared for the world to witness my gross ineptitude on the dance floor?" he turned her towards him, taking in the luminous halo of her hair in the moonlight, her face a combination of lines and shadows.

"I think I might be," she laughed, then sighed as his fingers slid along the line of her jaw again, lifting her face to his.

"Such evil beneath fair beauty lies," he muttered, staring down into her eyes glittering in the pale glow of the night.

"Yet men see evil in all but their own image," she countered, laughingly. "I've read the classics too, you know," Grace murmured then sighed as he bent his head and warmed her lips with his own.

"You are incredibly beautiful tonight," he whispered against her throat. "You might drive a man insane."

Closing her eyes, Grace wondered why Robert had never made her feel like this; how, in a single night, she had made such a connection with a man like Mycroft Holmes. She felt a warmth in her belly that had nothing to do with the wine.

"I thought this was potentially disastrous?" she breathed unsteadily as his fingertips skated feather-soft over her skin.

"It is," he kissed the point of her chin, the pad of a thumb rubbing carefully across her lower lip. "Though I find resistance impossible at the moment," he sighed softly as the heady scent of her made something clench inside his chest.

"Then dance with me," she allowed her own fingers to touch; his face, his mouth, the planes of his temple. "Please."

His eyes were black and unreadable but she felt the power of them nonetheless.

"_Omega_," he whispered. "Anything, for you."

In sensual freefall, Grace experienced a moment of dizziness and leaned her forehead down to his shoulder. "_Alpha_," she mumbled into the dark fabric of his jacket.

Mycroft roused himself from the brief interlude of folly he had allowed them both, standing and helping her to her feet. He felt a little drunk, though he knew the feeling had nothing to do with the alcohol in his system.

"I warn you now however, anything requiring more energy than a gentle waltz and you will have to find yourself another champion," he advised, taking her arm in his and leading her back towards the main college building. Escorting her up the few stone steps onto the main terrace, he saw that another's eyes were upon them.

In a moment of apparent wild impulse, he turned her towards him, his eyes searching her face before he pulled her against his chest, one hand in the small of her back, the other buried in the pale silk of her hair.

_Mine to protect._

He brought her to him, taking her mouth with fierce passion, kissing her inexorably and deeply as her arms linked behind his head and Grace Chandler became an incandescent flame of white gold in his arms.

Breathing heavily and with unfocused eyes, she looked up at him as he released her slowly, holding her and waiting as she regained her balance.

"Something I said?" she asked huskily.

"Maintaining our cover," he met her gaze and smiled, lifting her hand to his lips as he walked her back into the cheerfully lit room.

Emerging from behind the heavy drape of curtains, Devlin Rawl watched the couple stroll in and head for the nearest bar. He scowled blackly.

###

"I don't think you should look at it," Grace took his hand and attempted to veer him away from the entrance to the room with the photoboards. "I can almost guarantee it's going to be hideous and I don't want you to see me hideous quite yet," she tugged his wrist.

Utterly ignoring her efforts to dissuade him from investigating her old college persona, Mycroft strolled into the centre of the room with a glass of smoky scotch in one hand and her fingers in the other. Meeting her eyes, he smiled loftily. "Consider this vital research for my role," one corner of his mouth curled as he sipped the spirit. "Besides," he added, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. "I sincerely doubt any photograph of you is likely to be hideous. Do you know which one they chose for the exhibit?"

"Not a clue, but it's probably going to be one of me in a pub with Carol Williams right after we've finished a double-scull," Grace felt vaguely petulant; she had no wish to spoil the unexpected effect she seemed to be having on him. She had no idea what she had done for him to kiss her so extravagantly on the terrace, but found herself rather keen on replicating the experience. The last thing she wanted was Mycroft finding an old photo of her sweaty and bedraggled and quite possibly three sheets to the wind with a pint glass in her hand. "I will undoubtedly look awful and you'll be too embarrassed to stand next to me. It would have been a long time ago, regardless, and I'm hardly the same person now."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," he smiled, determined now to see what she would rather he didn't. "And you must consider me fickle indeed to be affected one way or another by an old photograph," he slid his long fingers through hers. "Have a little faith," he murmured, squeezing.

Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, Grace admitted defeat, vowing to remain silent on the subject matter of the photo, no matter how awful it was. Her glass was empty so she went to place it on the nearest bar, returning to Mycroft's side only to see him staring up at a large and intensely colourful print of a woman with a book.

Oh. _That_ photograph.

She remembered it had been taken not long after she had returned to Cambridge from Tbilisi after the student program at the National Gallery, the one where her dreams of working in arts restoration had started to die. The photo was of her seated at a table in a room of books, books all around her on shelves and stacked in great piles on every conceivable surface. All except the table at which she sat. Taken from a low angle, the lens, several yards away and at the level of the table, looked up into her face.

She'd worn her hair shorter back then; tousled gold locks raked haphazardly away from a face almost innocent of cosmetics, but with an expression of great focus and intensity in her wide grey eyes as she stared down at the table, eyebrows arched in a way suggestive of pleasure or revelation, or both.

Or rather, stared down at the _book_ on the table in front of her; a great leather-bound beast of magnitude and _gravitas_, the opened front cover displaying decorations hand-carved into the thick skin; incisions rubbed with earth-toned dyes and burnished until the whole thing looked like a user-manual for wizards.

In the picture, she had one arm outstretched above the opened book, pale fingers hovering just above the slightly curled edge of the next page to be turned, impatient to see what followed but unwilling to miss a single utterance of the current one.

A faint, half-smile curved her lips. So transfixed she was, and yet so present in the photograph that a single word might be enough to have her look up, a wider smile of inquiry on that approachable mouth.

"Captivating," Mycroft touched her hand as he stood, taking it all in, his eyes not leaving the image at all. He handed her his glass before reaching inside his jacket and pulling out his mobile. In an instant, he had captured the photo for himself. "For your file, of course," he said softly, turning to her with a look of understated satisfaction. "There is something deeply pleasing about you," he added, lifting her hand in his. "I haven't quite worked out what it is yet."

About to say more, he cut himself short as they were approached by another alumni.

"Grace!" Carol Williams stood only a few feet away and couldn't help but notice the expression of mutual preoccupation on their faces.

Pulling her gaze from Mycroft's, Grace turned at the sound of her old friend's greeting. "_Carole_," she laughed, throwing both arms around the woman and hugging her tight. "It's been forever."

"Ten years at least," the other blonde agreed, hugging back. "You're looking fabulous," she said, standing back and glancing across to her tall, immaculately suited partner. "And I can see you've found someone who makes you happy," she added cheerfully.

"Ah yes," Grace, delighted to have another person with whom to share her improbable situation. "This is My ..." she stopped dead, catching herself just before she ruined everything. She felt her fingers being squeezed again, very gently. She relaxed, blushing a little at the close call.

"This is my darling Robert," she said, leaning into him. "We both work in London; he's a lawyer."

"I'm so pleased for you," Carole Williams saw the blush but misconstrued its reason. She smiled, charmed, and reached for Grace's hand. "You know who I'm with, I assume?"

"That would be the Irish gentleman I met earlier?" Mycroft met a pair of grey eyes and smiled fondly. "The one who likes whisky?"

Unsure which way Mycroft intended that statement to be received, Grace chose to avoid it. "Devlin Rawl, yes," she nodded, looking back at her old _compadra_ with something of an inquiring expression. "He seems... changed," she added, a faint note of censure in her voice.

"He drinks too much and he likes to show off and tonight has brought out the worst in him," Carol sighed and shrugged. "I think seeing you again was a bit of a shock too," she added wanly. "Have you any idea what you look like in that outfit?"

"Grace is humouring me by wearing this," Mycroft slid his arm closer around her side. "I rarely get to see her in anything so spectacular," he smiled wickedly for the benefit of their audience. "Or out of it," he added, leaning down to kiss the back of her neck.

"You are being dreadfully indiscreet," Grace laughed breathily, squirming as he tickled, trying to tidy her hair from her face at the same moment his fingers slid through it, rumpling it again. "_Stop_," she protested softly, pushing his hand away and turning to roll her eyes at the other woman. "Children, all of them," she smiled.

"I'm so pleased you're happy together," Carol looked momentarily desolate. "You deserve every joy," she added. "I must get back; Himself will be wondering where I've gone."

"Then let him wonder," Grace frowned . There was something here that felt awry. "It does them good not to have everything their own way."

Smiling, Carol shook her head vaguely. "Perhaps we can have a chat later, or maybe tomorrow?" she called over her shoulder. "It would be nice to catch up."

Waiting until her old friend vanished into the next room, Grace turned to stare into a darkly lugubrious gaze. "What is it?" she said, immediately aware that something was very wrong and that he already knew what it was.

"When she put her arms around you," he blinked slowly. "Her sleeves rose up a little."

"And?" Grace had no idea what he was trying to tell her.

"There were bruises," he added softly. "Finger-shaped bruises."

Her mind must still have been in the pergola with the roses, because it took several seconds for realisation to creep beyond the surface of her awareness. As understanding dawned, Mycroft saw her face freeze and a dusky pink appear in the clear ivory of her cheeks. He watched as her grey eyes widened with outrage, and waited for the inevitable reaction, easily able to anticipate and head her off as she wheeled around to march after her friend.

"I'll kill him," she growled, trying to avoid the long arm that was already reaching around her shoulders. "I'll get a big poker from the fireplace and I'll bloody kill him," her voice was low and wrapped in ferocity.

"Not tonight, my darling," Mycroft had his other arm around her now, holding her to him as he waited for the tempest to subside. Such passion for her unfortunate friend; so ready to rush in foolishly, _uselessly_. Her anger would not help the situation.

"Listen to me," he murmured in her ear as she continued to contest his hold. He squeezed her inside the cage of his arms. "_Listen_. This is not the way to obtain justice for Ms Williams," he whispered carefully. "Trust me, _Omega_," his voice softer than the rose petals in the garden. "He will be dealt with, I promise."

Exhaling, Grace let herself go limp, a horrible lump in her throat and the scald of adrenalin still in her veins. "You promise?"

_I trust you._

"I guarantee it," Mycroft eased his grasp as he felt the woman in his arms relax. He sighed inwardly. Only the weekend before, his life had consisted of nothing more complex than multinational conspiracies, long-seated, violent political intrigue and the occasional bomb-threat. In one night, _one single, unbelievable night_, it was suddenly byzantine and chaotic and he had absolutely no clue as to what might happen next.

Despite himself, he smiled, turning her around to face him. "I would like it very much if you would dance with me," he rested the sides of his hands on her shoulders, allowing his fingers to card through the silk of her hair. It was a novel and not displeasing sensation, and he found himself feeling inexplicably affectionate. "Would you?"

"You're trying to distract me, aren't you?" she scowled briefly before her face cleared again. "Not a bad idea, I suppose," Grace met his eyes, raising her eyebrows at the look on his face which held an unusual impression of tenderness. Reaching for his fingers and pressing them to her cheek, she smiled. "Come on then; let's see if we can manage something sedate."

The room next door containing the small band, was lit less brightly, with dainty, lamp-lit tables huddled around the perimeter and a roughly oval clearing in the middle where several couples were already swaying in time with the mellow jazz.

Taking her hand, Mycroft swung her in a small circle and back into his waiting arms as the music kicked off into something slow and bluesy. There was hardly any real beat at all, just gentle pulses of sound that had them moving in concert. Holding one of her hands high against his shoulder, he permitted his other hand to splay lightly across the arch of her back. Supporting her along the plane of his chest, he could hardly help noticing how naturally she curved against him, how the softness of her form fitted almost perfectly into his arms and the line of his body. He was becoming helplessly beguiled by her and he knew it, and he almost _didn't care_; this kind of visceral, intuitive attraction breached his defences below the waterline and the sensation was both disturbing and glorious. He wondered how far it might evolve. And then there was her perfume.

Holding her this close and this warm, his head lowered until he could feel the brush of her hair on his cheek, her fragrance coiled around him as a solid thing, flooding his head like an opiate and leaving him perplexingly breathless. Parts of his body were suddenly very aware of her proximity.

"Your perfume," his voice was barely more than a rumble between them. "I've been enjoying it all evening. What is it? It's exquisite."

Resting against his chest in the dim light, eyes closed and immersed in the soft, moody music, the warmth of him all around her, Grace felt as if she were on the edge of dreaming. Everything was becoming slow and sensual; Mycroft's touch, the way his body moved with hers, even his cologne. It didn't matter if they were dancing or not, she wanted to carry on like this forever. Her eyelids fluttered open.

"What perfume?" she murmured. "I forgot to bring any with me," she moved her hand further around his shoulder and closed her eyes again, resting the side of her face against the smooth satin of his lapel, a soft sigh of pleasure parting her lips as she did so.

Mycroft understood at that moment that he was doomed.

Not only had Grace Chandler turned out to be utterly different from any person, any _woman_ he had known before, but she was _Omega_, her rare biology contiguous and complimentary to his own, with everything that accompanied such an implication. The Law Archivist was unique, was special _and was currently in his arms_. She was also brave, pragmatic, beautiful, resilient and mouth-wateringly alluring. _And_ _in addition to all of this_, her natural fragrance was driving him to the very edge of distraction. His head swam and his throat dried, his entire body wanting nothing more than to sweep her off to their shared room and explore each and every one of her exemplary attributes in an exhaustive and utterly shameless manner.

Disregarding her subdued squeak of protest, his encasing arm tightened noticeable as his inner Alpha asserted an uncontested sovereignty, though still sufficiently mindful not to interrupt the smooth flow of their synchronistic movements. Breathing deep and compressing his jaw, Mycroft Holmes, Civil Servant, friend to the Monarchy and _Alpha_, found himself, for the briefest of moments, wishing he were anything but a British gentleman.

###

Their fingers were inches apart in the centre of the small table, the muted light of the lamp painting a golden glow across their skin, as they sat, silent and thoughtful.

"I think it might be time for you to leave Cambridge," Mycroft cleared his throat. "I don't want you to be here anymore," he added. "It might even be possible to get you back to London tonight."

Frowning down at the back of their hands as she drew invisible lines across the tablecloth, Grace drew a slow breath and looked up, meeting the darkness of his eyes.

"You don't want me to be here," she stated. "You want me to leave you alone?"

"Yes. I'm confident my people will unearth the vital connections in this admittedly puzzling situation without further need for you to be exposed like this," he said, looking at her assessingly. "I think I'd rather you to be gone from here as soon as possible."

His meaning sunk in and Grace frowned even harder. "Are you saying you don't want me here because I'm not _needed_ as bait any more, or because you don't _want_ me to be bait any more?"

"Does it matter?" Mycroft sipped a small coffee. "Either way, you'd be elsewhere."

"Yes," Grace nodded slowly. "It does matter. It matters a great deal, in fact," she sat back, out of the immediate circle of lamplight. "I wouldn't go, in any case," she added, swirling the remains of her small brandy.

"You assume there's a choice?"

"You could have me arrested and carted off, of course," she sat back and made a face. "But I think people might notice, especially if I decided to make a fuss about it," she smiled sweetly.

Observing the set of her mouth, Mycroft performed a rapid re-evaluation of her positive traits; he neither needed nor appreciated her resistance. He scowled.

"Besides," she said. "Don't try and tell me you've got this all worked out, because you haven't," she raised an eyebrow and looked ingenuous. "I'd have known if you had."

_Mine to protect_._ Damn the woman_.

He leaned forward, his brows lowered and an expression that brooked absolutely no disagreement. "I know what I'm doing here; _you_," he muttered blackly, his lip curling. "_Do_ _not_."

Grace mimicked his position, leaning forward into the warm glow of the lamp until her earrings were nearly brushing the tablecloth. "Frankly, my dear," she spoke in honeyed tones. "I don't give a damn," she smiled. "I've always wanted to say that," she added, looking mildly pleased with herself.

"You're forcing my hand," he warned, a distinct coolness in his words.

"Utter crap, Mycroft," Grace shook her head. "I doubt anyone has forced you to do anything since you were eight years old," she lifted her eyebrows in query. "Or was it younger?"

He didn't want her to stay but neither did he want her to leave. Caught on the uncomfortable division in the middle, he found himself sighing with capitulation. "About then," he nodded. "I boarded at Harrow when I was seven."

"So then, I'll stay," Grace dipped a finger into the empty brandy-glass and gazed at him in an unblinking stare. She sucked her finger, smiling wilfully as he tensed.

"You have no idea ..." Mycroft paused as a younger couple, arms about one another, walked across to their table.

"Grace Chandler?" the dark-haired, smiling woman stood and smiled down at her, offering her hand. "The same Doctor Chandler who runs the Law Archives in Essex Street?"

"That would be me," Grace nodded slowly, wondering who this person might be and where they might have met before. "Have we met?"

"Not in the physical sense," the woman smiled some more. "But I've heard about you quite a bit since I completed my Conservation studies here," she waved a hand around the room.

"And she wouldn't let me have any peace until we came over to say hello," the woman's partner added, smiling hugely.

His voice was familiar and Grace met his eyes more directly.

_Perdue_, the driver. This was all part of Mycroft's plan.

"Join us, please," Grace pulled out the chair next to her for the woman, while Perdue, naturally, had to take the one next to Mycroft.

"News?" he asked, watching Grace pretend to make enthusiastic conversation with his female operative.

"Still no concrete link between anyone here and our Eastern friends," Perdue smiled happily at the woman he was supposedly escorting. "There is something about one man though," he added softly. "One Devlin Rawl has had some low-level connection to a Russian-based distribution company that retails out a significant portion of his refined products," he grinned and nodded emphatically, as if agreeing with something just said. "Seems a fair bit of that product finds its way directly to Moscow."

"Does Mr Rawl's distillery manufacture vodka, by any chance?" Mycroft was still staring at Grace, examining the fullness of her lower lip and assessing his growing desire to test its softness.

"You might think so, given the amount of his alcohol that ends up along the Volga," Perdue smiled widely at nothing in particular. "But no."

"Find out everything that there is to know about Rawl," Mycroft watched Grace as she laughed at something the younger woman said, the cords of her throat tensing with each movement, each flicker of her muscles adding to the pulse of craving he could feel in every region of his body. "Get back to me as soon as you have anything that connects him to either the Russians or GIS," he added, pushing his coffee cup decisively to the centre of the table.

"It's getting late, my darling," he said, interrupting the women's conversation. "If you are going to show me the sights in the morning, shall we call it a night?"

A faint smile curving her mouth, Grace nodded. "It's been a long day," she agreed. "I could do with a decent sleep."

"Then perhaps we can meet up with you for breakfast?" Perdue stood, shaking both Mycroft's and Grace's hand, his voice a fraction overloud. "This has been a fascinating conversation and I'd love to know more," he added, wrapping an arm around his companion's shoulders. "Until tomorrow?"

"Look forward to it," Mycroft also stood, a hand extended towards Grace. "Bedtime, my love," his voice was perfectly normal, a feat he accredited to all the years he'd spent interrogating terrorists.

"Mmm," she almost laughed. If he became any more proper, she'd get a fit of the giggles and would ruin the mood. Walking hand-in-hand along the dim and mostly empty corridors, Grace felt the tension between them develop into an almost tangible sensation. By the time they'd reached their accommodation at the far side of the building, she knew Mycroft could feel each jolt of her pulse.

Unlocking the door to their room, he held it open for her until she walked through. About to make some throw-away comment on Perdue's changed persona, Grace found herself wrapped suddenly and completely in a pair of long arms, being kissed as if the world was about to end.

Mycroft felt the heat surge between them as he did what he'd been aching to do since they'd returned from the garden, holding her almost immobile and pressed close against his chest, he savoured her mouth and lips as a fresh wave of her scent dragged him to the edge of vertigo. "_God_," he groaned, holding her even tighter, his fingers at the nape of her neck, supporting her head as he took his time with his prize, even as he felt her become heavy and unresisting in his embrace. Sliding one of the fine straps away from her shoulder, he grazed unhindered along the expanse of soft white flesh, his heart thundering in his chest as the dull pools of heat in his head and groin turned volcanic with a sudden and burning imperative. He wanted her more than he could remember wanting anything. "_Omega_," he growled thickly against her skin, wanting to taste and bite and take.

She would give him whatever he wanted, she knew, as the heat inside her turned white and molten and far, far beyond any control she might have thought to exert, had she been able to think of anything at all. Her body was acting entirely upon instinct as she bared her throat in order to feel his mouth on her skin. It was what she wanted, what she _needed_, and what he could give her.

His fingers shook as he fumbled with the zip of her dress, unused to the pounding sensation of such uncultivated passion, partially ripping the fine cloth in his urgency.

"_Alpha_," Grace almost tore the dress away in order to feel his hands on her skin, all over her skin. She felt feral and wild; a thing of sex and need.

It was amazing that either heard the soft knocking at the door, but they did.


	5. Chapter 5: The Solitude of Liberty

**The Solitude of Liberty**

_Sweeter Dreams – The Leaving of Devlin Rawl – Not What was Looked For. _

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She sat on the edge of the bath, face in her hands, feeling the fading after-effects of what had almost been a tempestuous sexual encounter.

The knock at their door had barely registered in her consciousness before she'd found herself wrenched away from Mycroft's arms as he physically manhandled her through to the bedroom and thence into the bathroom, securing the door tightly behind him.

"Lock the door and stay out of sight," he snapped before disappearing back into the bedroom. There had been no explanation, no word of caution, just_ lock the door_ and then silence.

Her heart had been beating so hard in her ears; it had been difficult to hear anything but Grace found her shoulders relaxing as soon as she heard the low murmur of voices. Whatever was going on out there, it wasn't a full-scale gunfight, although she wasn't sure what else she might have been expecting. The sound of the far door closing came about ten seconds before the bathroom's old bakelite handle rattled, giving her a moment or two to collect her thoughts and unlock it before the handle turned fully, revealing a weary-looking Mycroft standing in the half-opened doorway.

"It was Perdue," he rubbed a hand over his face. "There's a number Rawl has been using for the last several months," he leaned a little against the frame of the door as if he were too enervated for his legs to hold him straight. "We know it belongs to the Russians, so we have at least one of the connections we came here to find," he said. "Possibly the only one there is."

He could see she wasn't quite herself; her eyes still vague and her body slumped in the throes of adrenalin withdrawal. She looked exhausted. Mycroft also noted her gown was the worse for wear and hanging from her by a single strap. An impulse from the subconscious, savage part of his brain snarled at him to continue his conquest, but by far the greater part of his mind felt a wash of shame. Grace Chandler had placed her safety and well-being entirely in his hands and this was how he abused her trust. He looked away, unwilling to see the condemnation in her face.

She blinked several times, her mind still not up to full speed. "Devlin is connected to the Russians?" she couldn't see how this was even feasible, let alone a workable relationship. "But that's madness," she said, trying to meet his eyes, wondering why he wasn't looking at her. Was he embarrassed by what almost happened between them? Was he now regretting allowing this attraction between them? Was he angry? Did he despise her for letting all of this happen?

Grace felt her stomach lurch as she looked away, a wave of heat colouring her face. "It makes no sense," she repeated, staring down at the linoleum floor. "Why would Devlin, a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist, have anything whatsoever to do with the Russians?"

Mycroft nearly smiled. She still considered the Russian state to be even vaguely communist. "Money talks very loudly in most arenas," he said. "But loudest of all in business," he added, leaning his head back against the door-jamb and closing his eyes for a second. "There will be a reason, no doubt," he said softly. "And I shall find it."

"I'm very tired, Mycroft," Grace pushed herself slowly to her feet, all manner of aches and stiffness making themselves known. "I'd like to get some sleep, if that's okay," she finally managed to catch his gaze and hesitated. He looked troubled, not angry. About to lift her fingertips to touch his face, she paused as he moved abruptly from his resting place at the door and strode back into the bedroom.

"Then I suggest you do precisely that," he indicated the chair. "I'll be here, as we agreed earlier."

So; he wasn't even going to think about ... bed. _Fine then_, in that case. There was no reason for her to feel the slightest bit guilty over any of this. Grace nodded stiffly, grabbing her night gear out of her bag, along with her toiletries, and headed back into the bathroom.

Alone and unseen, Mycroft allowed his head to hang forward until his chin rested on his chest. The night had promised to be utterly incomparable until the interruption; an interruption he _had_ to deal with ... it might have been anyone at the door. _Anyone with a gun_. He regretted bundling Grace into the bathroom the way he had, but he had no idea who had knocked and had taken the obvious precautionary stance.

_Mine to protect_.

Lifting his head, he turned to stare at the closed door and the sound of running water beyond it. A wave of longing stirred in his chest as he imagined her getting ready for bed; an event that, _even now_, he ached to be a part of. Straightening his shoulders, he inhaled deeply, letting the air from his lungs in a resigned finality. Taking off his jacket, he also loosened his tie and rolled back his cuffs. The room had cooled somewhat with the onset of night, but it was not uncomfortable and would assist his nocturnal vigilance. Turning the chair so that it more nearly faced the door, he switched on the small table lamp and laid his phone in easy reach. Sitting, he realised that not only did he have a nice clear view of the entrance to the apartment, but he was staring almost directly at the bathroom door.

A door behind which Grace Chandler was still completing her ablutions. The sound of running water had changed to that of a shower. Apparently she was intent upon removing all traces of the evening and would take whatever steps were conducive to that end. He scowled.

The noises from the bathroom ceased and he knew she would be rejoining him shortly. The last thing he desired at this point was any reopening of earlier conversations, so he picked up his phone with the intention of checking for any further situational updates. Perhaps in the morning, after they had both regained their perspective, they might revisit the situation, but right now, the less said, the better.

The bathroom door opened releasing a cloud of perfumed air. Mycroft could detect the light citrus of Grace's preferred Verbena toiletries but there was also a whiff of sweet-scented shampoo. She had already dressed in her night-attire of loose cotton pyjama-bottoms and an old t-shirt; both items well past their discard date, but each one soft and accommodating for sleep. Neither did a particularly good job of concealing the luscious curves that only minutes ago had been his to savour. Though making a show of focusing on his mobile, Mycroft noted that she seemed to be unsophisticated and unguarded dressed like this. His stomach tightened as he took in the artlessness of her; her trust in him now so complete that she wasn't even aware of it.

Marching directly across to the large bed, she pulled the covers back in a single aggressive sweep and crawled in, turning to face away before switching off the bedside lights. Thumping the pillows several times, there was a faint _good night_, then nothing.

Sighing internally, Mycroft attempted to divert all of his attention to the screen of his phone, scrolling through page after page of logged search updates.

Grace turned over in the bed, her eyes tight closed.

He maintained the focus on the screen, its bright glow reflected on his face.

Grace turned over again, a faint sigh coming from her pillow as she dragged up the bedcovers until she was little more than a vague lump beneath them.

Several minutes passed with nothing louder in the room than their breathing.

With a muffled grumble, Grace turned over yet again before sitting up, her bedraggled hair all over the place. She frowned at him.

"Are there any more blankets?" she asked. "I'm freezing."

The bedroom was no cooler now than it had been ten minutes previous. Though not hot, it was by no means cold; the night outside was balmy for the time of year.

"I will investigate," dropping his phone onto the side table, Mycroft walked to the over-large wardrobe in the room, opening the ornately carved double-doors and searching the interior. It was entirely empty. Nor were there any other forms of storage in the room other than bookshelves. The main room next door offered no greater success; there were no rugs or throws that might be called into service as additional bedding. He returned to the bedroom where Grace was now sitting up with several different layers of blankets and covers give her a distinct eskimo-like roundness.

"There doesn't appear to be anything more that might be used," he said, observing what might be seen of her face. "Are you truly cold?"

A pale hand emerged from within the nest of blankets. "Freezing," she muttered, unhappily. "Feel."

Her fingers waggled in mid-air as she waited for his assessment. After a breath, he stepped forward, wrapping his own fingers around those she deemed to be on the cold side of comfort.

He frowned. Her fingers actually were rather icy. Leaning closer, he brought his other hand to clasp around her wrist. There was a definite chill to her skin that seemed to be unusual given the ambient temperature.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, his fingers sliding further up her forearm. "Do you feel ill?"

"I'm not ill, just cold," Grace withdrew the arm into her cocoon. "It's part of being an Omega, sometimes," she added with no further explanation offered. "I need a hot water bottle."

Knowing he could probably have one of his people locate such an item, even if it meant they had to venture out into Cambridge's main street in search of a late-night chemist's shop, Mycroft decided that discretion was still the better part of this little adventure. To draw any attention to his support network might expose them all and render the entire expedition fruitless. No; he would not ask any of his people to risk their cover.

But there were no further items that might be used to warm her.

In which case, there was only one other option. He closed his eyes and sighed inwardly.

"Move over," he waved her further across the wide bed as he sat on the edge of the bed and slid his shoes from his feet. Lifting the bedclothes, he slid beneath them, arranging himself comfortably along the edge of the mattress.

"What are you doing?" Grace watched his every movement with a slight frown.

"If you are as cold as you say and I cannot arrange for you to have additional bedclothes, then I will act as your hot-water bottle," he said. "I assure you that my specific biology maintains a body-temperature constant of thirty-eight point five degrees Celsius," he said, leaning back against the pillows and beckoning her across the expanse of bed. "Here."

Too embarrassed to tell him that her sudden drop in temperature was a direct result of her earlier emotional upheaval, nor yet happy to take him up on his offer, Grace sat in thought.

"If you are unwilling to accept my assistance, then you will remain cold, the choice is entirely yours," Mycroft sounded a little bored.

Grace shivered, an unpleasant sensation she would rather not continue with into the night. With a great stirring of bedclothes, she dragged herself across and cuddled into his side, feeling his arm slide down inside the covers until it rested against her cold back.

It felt wonderfully cosy.

"How do you stay so warm?" she asked, already feeling some of the heat migrate across from him to her. "You're toasty."

"Alpha biology has much to recommend it," he announced, his gaze already back on the screen of his phone. "Go to sleep."

"Thank you," she muttered quietly, closing her eyes and resting entirely against the side of his chest. Though the temperature difference between them was not huge, it was sufficient to begin warming her. As the heat trickled into her veins, Grace sighed softly, her body finally relaxing into sleep.

Intending to stay where he was only for as long as she needed his additional body-heat, Mycroft found his own body unwinding as Grace's breathing regulated and her limbs loosened from their chilled tension. The bed was soft, yet firm enough that his back was able to allow the pillows to support his muscles and the fact that he had barely slept for the last two nights made such warm comfort a pleasant change. He decided to stay where he was a little longer, just enough to complete his review of the updates and text any necessary instructions.

A soft snore in the region of his left ribs made him blink and look down.

She was pressed along the length of him, her hands tucked into the space between her and his chest, her eyelashes almost brushing the dark fabric of his waistcoat. Tendrils of her freshly-washed hair waved backwards and forwards in the air as if undecided in which direction to fall. Without disturbing his sleeping bedmate, Mycroft carefully smoothed several of the golden strands down against the dark cloth covering his chest, noting how even the individual strands gleamed in the lamplight. Realising he couldn't stay like this all night; he fought down a yawn and thought about moving back to his chair.

The first time he awoke was three hours later; stretched out under the covers, a sublime warmth and weight all the way down his back as Grace remained limpet-like in her search for body-heat. Even though he had been sleeping in his clothes, he didn't feel terribly uncomfortable, but seriously thought again of leaving the nest of bedclothes and seeking the much more sensible haven of the chintz armchair by the window.

The second time he awoke, the scent of lemon shampoo was everywhere, and the heat and weight had switched to his front. Cracking open an eye, he saw that he had rolled completely over and Grace was now lying fully within the cradle of his arms, her soft hair tickling his chin as her face pressed into the unbuttoned shirt at his throat.

Despite the fact he had not planned on sleeping, and certainly not in the same bed as her, Mycroft had to admit that not only did he feel much refreshed, but that his current situation was far from unpleasant. He was almost tempted to close his eyes again ...

"A little beyond the call of duty?" Grace's hazy mumble heralded her return to the conscious world.

"You were cold," he spoke into the space above her head. "And it seems I was more tired that I realised."

"You got comfortable and fell asleep with me," Grace hadn't budged an inch, although he could feel the faint movement of her breath on his skin. "In some countries it would mean we're engaged," he could feel her smile.

"I feel sure I would be aware had any such announcement taken place," Mycroft was pleased they seemed to have returned to their earlier détente. He moved far enough away so that he could see her eyes. "And how are you feeling this morning?"

She blinked lazily. "Pretty good considering I don't usually sleep well in strange beds with strange men," she smiled again.

A warm wave of sensation washed through him, tempting him yet again to draw her back into his arms and close his eyes ...

"And I could really go for breakfast," she added, burying her face into his chest and laughing quietly.

"Clearly it is my karma in this life to ensure you are never more than fifty-feet from a well-stocked kitchen," he stated fatalistically. "And if we are to favour the others with our presence, then I must shower and change."

"Go for it," Grace yawned. "I may lie here for a while as I work out my wardrobe choices for the day."

"You're going back to sleep, aren't you?" he raised an eyebrow as he looked down into her heavy-lidded eyes, finding the expression on her face to be inexplicably appealing.

"Never," she muttered, already drowsy. "As if I'd do such a thing ..."

She was asleep before he'd managed to swing his legs out of bed.

He had no idea why he was smiling as he grabbed his gear and headed into the small bathroom, but he was, a smile that stayed with him even when he was shaving, almost causing him to nick his upper lip. He scowled instead, deliberately bringing his expression back to a more familiar demeanour.

Opening the bathroom door quietly, it was clear that Grace had, indeed, returned to sleep, enabling him to walk across the room with only a bath towel wrapped around his waist. Checking again that she was unlikely to move in the next few minutes, he proceeded to dress, throwing the damp towel over the chair as he donned underwear and socks, unfolding and shaking out a crisp white shirt to go with the mid-grey lightweight suit he'd packed for the day. As he was sliding his arms into the waistcoat, he heard Grace turn over in the bed.

"I had you pegged as a boxers man," she snickered into the pillow before resting back on her elbows and grinning. "You have a very nice bottom, though, so I don't suppose it much matters what you wear."

Pausing briefly with his buttons, he turned, examining her lying there, watching him. "Thank you for the charitable praise," he smiled mildly. "And I'm sure, in the furtherance of sexual equality, you will provide an opportunity for a similar assessment?" his expression was open and innocent and utterly, utterly deliberate.

Raking fingers through her mop of tangled hair, Grace met his direct stare of challenge and smiled equally directly back.

"Careful what you ask for, Mycroft," her mouth curved consciously as she slid out of the far side of the bed, stripping off the t-shirt and stepping out of the pyjamas as she walked towards the bathroom, quite naked as she reached for her toiletry bag. "You never know when you might get it," she added, sauntering towards the open bathroom door, providing a very excellent opportunity indeed.

He smiled, shaking his head. Whatever was going to become of this ... _liaison_, Mycroft already knew he'd be unlikely to meet another woman quite like Grace Chandler. As he slid a pair of black onyx cufflinks into his sleeves, he picked up his phone to see if anything new had eventuated since he fell asleep. In doing so, his thumb brushed the icon for his photographs and the latest addition, the one of Grace as a student in the room of books.

With the books.

With _a_ _book_.

Holding the phone screen directly in front of his face, he scrutinised every detail. Obviously a library, but not a formal nor yet a public one; more a repository of sorts, the irregularity of the shelving and general and haphazard position of the multitudinous texts suggested some out-of-sight storage or collection away from the public eye. Clearly a large space; some discrete facility available to conservation students from the university? Might it be on university grounds? He could see no signs, no suggestion that this place was anywhere on university property. Peering closely at the largest volume in focus behind Grace's head, he was able to make out a faint sigil. Expanding the image to the maximum level, he was able to make out the indistinct shape of a capital letter 'F'. He needed to know where this place was, and he needed to know _now_.

Striding over to the bathroom door, he rapped twice, paused for one heartbeat before opening the door, entering into a vast billowing cloud of citrus-scented steam. Reminiscent of a Turkish sauna, he felt his skin grow instantly clammy.

"Good _grief_," he waved the steam away in a futile gesture, searching for the switch of the extractor fan which, upon activation, did a remarkably swift job of sucking the offending vapour into oblivion.

Grace was behind the plastic shower curtain. The plastic and totally _transparent_ shower curtain.

"A gentleman would at least hand me a towel," she muttered, eventually turning the water off and standing the other side of the useless privacy screen, hands on her hips.

Frowning, he handed her a face-cloth, lifting the screen of his phone to her face. "Where was this photograph taken, and what is that book in front of you?"

Pulling the plastic to one side and wiping water from her face with the cloth, Grace peered down at the tiny image. "Oh that," she said, nodding. "That's at the Fitz; it was taken when I came back from Tbilisi after the conservation program. It was years and years ago though," she added, starting to feel a slight chill in regions to the south. "Might I complete my shower now?" she asked sweetly.

"The Fitz?"

"The stacks at the Fitzwilliam museum," she sighed, realising her hot and hedonistic shower had met an untimely end. She stepped out of the bath and reached for the folded bath-towel hanging over a rail on the wall. "It's where I did most of my conservation practicals," she added. Wrapping herself securely in a length of thin towelling, she stood in front of the wall-mirror, dragging a comb through her dampened hair until it was straight and orderly.

"And the book?" he came to stand behind her, watching every glide of the comb and the subtle shift of muscles in her back and shoulders. Drops of water slid down her skin. Leaning forward, he licked several of them away.

"Always wondered what blondes tasted like," he murmured softly as she turned, her face suddenly alight with passion as she reached for him, pulling him down to her and into a kiss that had them both breathless and leaning against the steamy bathroom wall.

"You are going to ruin the line of my suit," he muttered, pressing close and investigating the soft skin of her throat. "Please behave."

"You started it," Grace gasped as his hand curved around her bottom, pulling her tight against him, tight enough so it was obvious she wasn't the only interested party here.

"And unfortunately, I am going to be the one who finishes it," he kissed her again before stepping back towards the door, the slightest expression of regret on his face. "There is still work to be done. The book?" he repeated.

Closing her eyes, Grace took a deep breath and sighed, a resigned acceptance of his clear resolve. Almost resigned.

"That was one of the notebooks the Georgian National Museum gave each of us students on the program," she inhaled slowly, resting back against the wall and looking up at him, wonderingly. For an Alpha, his signals were all over the place and she wondered what he was having a problem with. He was an intelligent and self-assertive man; clearly experienced with women and well aware how the game was played. Why then was he two steps forward and one step back? Half-tempted to pursue this, Grace found herself imagining what he would do if she did. Could she seduce him into bed? Could she make him lose control to the point where his judgement would desert him entirely? What would it be like to sexually incite an Alpha to the point of abandonment?

Looking up, she saw his eyes were terribly blue.

And amused.

"Hardly worth your while to try," he offered, dryly, reading her thoughts as if she had spoken them out loud.

"You can't keep _doing_ that," Grace scowled, pushing away from the damp wall, pushing him away from her, irritated that he could see even into her thoughts. "It's not fair."

"An habitual failing of mine," he murmured, his mouth faintly curved, his fingers stroking damp blonde strands from her eyes. "I am a base and worthless wretch. Forgive me."

"Just get out and let me get back to normal," she growled, opening the bathroom door and impelling him bodily through it.

Taking her time, she completed her preparations, eventually emerging from the bathroom fully dressed and once more composed and in control. He was sitting over by the window in the chintz chair, lifting his eyes briefly as she walked past him into the main room to grab her bag. "Hungry now," she called over her shoulder. "Are you going to have breakfast or is it safe for me to venture out alone?"

Almost immediately, Grace felt his hand under her elbow and smiled. At least she was beginning to understand how he reacted to certain stimuli. Apparently he was taking his escort duty very seriously.

"Your large notebook in the photograph," he murmured quietly as he locked the main door to quarters behind him. "If it wasn't at your Southbank apartment, then might it still be in the stacks at the museum?"

Grace pondered the idea. She knew for a fact the book in the photograph hadn't been at her home; she would have remembered it being there, would have remembered if it had been there _and_ _then been taken_. But she couldn't remember leaving it at the Fitz either; it wasn't the kind of thing she would have left behind, especially since it would have contained all her notes from the Tbilisi trip in addition to other data she would have acquired since her return from Georgia. But if it wasn't at her flat and she couldn't remember leaving it anywhere, then where on earth had it gone?

For some reason, the half-smiling image of Rafe Erwood floated into her thoughts. Now why would she suddenly be thinking of him in connection to her long-missing notebook? And then she remembered.

"The last time I saw that book was when I handed it to Rafe so he could check on the write-up of one of my final procedures," she said, quite naturally tucking her hand into the crook of Mycroft's elbow as they walked along the wide passage towards the room designated for breakfast. "It was just before I finished here and left to take up a trainee conservator's role with an auction house in Nottingham," she added. "I have no idea what he did with it," Grace frowned. "He wouldn't have dumped it; it wasn't his to throw away, but he never called me to come take it back, nor did he post it to me," she looked up into Mycroft's face, puzzled. "Why would he keep it?"

The small crease between her eyebrows had an odd effect on his insides. The sudden urge to wipe the frown away with his fingertips, with his lips, was acute and unexpected. "Think, Grace," he spoke softly and her eyes focused openly on his face. He was telling her something and she needed to work it out.

"He kept it on purpose?" she tested the words, uncertainty in her voice. "Why would he keep one of my notebooks ..?" her voice tailed off as sure knowledge replaced the doubts. Her eyebrows rose. "This was the book they were looking for in my flat?" her heart beat a rapid tattoo of incipient anger. "This is why they wrecked my home?"

"My dear Archivist," he turned to her, his fingers gentle at her shoulders, his voice soft. "I promised you that all would be well and you promised to trust me," he said. "Or are you changing your mind?"

There was something in his eyes, in his voice; even in the way he stood and looked at her. He spoke the absolute truth and she knew it.

"How can you promise me these things?" she wanted to feel his arms around her. "How can you be so sure that things that are going to be the way you expect them to be when I can hardly make sense of the things that have _already_ happened? How can you be certain that everything will work out so exactly as you imagine?"

He looked down at her puzzled expression and smiled. He couldn't help it; she made him feel so extraordinarily pleased that he could do these things for her. It was almost wrong, the effect this was having on his mood. Why was he feeling like this?

_Mine to protect_. _Mine ... to protect_.

"Trust me," was all he could say, his throat drying for some inexplicable reason, as he dipped down and brushed the soft place beneath her ear with his mouth.

An impossible smile arriving on her face, Grace simply sighed and gave in. it was much more pleasant this way; allowing Mycroft to persuade her that everything would be fine in the end.

Arriving in one of the rooms just off the Great Hall, they saw a number of the long tables had been arranged so that everyone could breakfast together, much as they had dined last night.

Devlin Rawl and Carole Williams were already there, facing each other across one of the tables, drinking coffee. Grace stiffened, her anger from the previous evening not terribly far away.

"Trust me," Mycroft repeated in her ear, drawing her towards a table quite on the other side of the room and well away from any chance meeting with the pair.

Waiting for coffee to be poured for them both, he glanced at the breakfast menu before returning his eyes to the blonde woman seated opposite staring at her menu. In only a very short space of time she had made her presence quite central to him in this investigation, whether she was aware of her assistance or not. Against all reason, it felt good to have her companionship. The strange warmth bloomed inside him once again.

"Is there any way you can get us into the private rooms of the museum this morning?" he asked, indicating the eggs Benedict to the waiter with a tray of cooked comestibles while reaching over to snag a thick piece of crunchy toast.

"Don't see why not," Grace blinked. "Unless they've changed the security code, which they never did in all the time I was there," she added. "Besides, after working inside the place for the better part of two years, I'm fairly sure I could get us both in one way or another."

"Then you know what we are going to do after breakfast," he said, allowing the waiter to pour him another cup of evilly-black morning coffee and enjoying the light Hollandaise sauce with the eggs.

"You want to go and look for my old notebook?" she sounded unsure. "At the Fitz?"

"Is there anywhere else?" Mycroft finished the coffee, feeling a distinct rush of caffeine-based alertness rising within. "Erwood's office has already been checked, although it can be arranged for you to revisit your old professor's private rooms if you think such a visit might prompt further avenues of investigation."

"It could be useful to have a quick look in Rafe's old office, but other than that, I suppose the Fitz is the most logical place," Grace finished the last spoonful of muesli and grapefruit juice, snagging a piece of cold toast as she spoke. "The museum's not that far from here; a twenty-minute walk or so, but if my notebook's there, it really could be anywhere after all this time."

Realising his driver was otherwise involved, Mycroft blinked at the prospect of a twenty-minute unprotected exposure through the centre of Cambridge. If it had to be, then it had to be. Finishing his coffee, he raised his eyebrows. "Shall we go?" he asked, standing.

"_Grace_," Carole Williams had already crossed the centre of the room to catch her attention. "Can we talk for a moment?" she asked, turning and looking apologetically at Mycroft. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she said.

Waving an easy acceptance, he sat back down and watched as the two women met each other's eyes. There was an unspoken message that he was unable to decipher though the end result was clear to see.

"We can talk about anything you want, whenever you want," Grace held the other woman's gaze. "You don't ever need to ask," she added. "Want to go somewhere private?"

Mycroft frowned slightly at that, but wondered how far away they might go. It was also the knowledge that there would be other eyes than his own watching them too. _Still_ ...

"By all means, my love," he said slowly, rising from the table and indicating the open door. "Shall we meet in the garden by the tree when you are done?"

Nodding thankfully at his understanding, Grace stood up and walked away into one of the other rooms, her arm already around Carole's shoulders and their heads close together in private conversation.

Watching them disappear into the next room, Mycroft very carefully avoided looking for any of his four operatives whom he already seen in the breakfast room. Retaking his seat, he reached for a folded copy of the Telegraph and nodded as the waiter offered to refill his coffee cup. Around the edge of the newspaper in his peripheral vision, he was able to watch as Perdue and Granger wandered apparently aimlessly across the room after the two women. Relaxing somewhat, Mycroft turned his attention back to the paper in his hands, tilting it for a better view of the front page, but in reality, for a better view of Devlin Rawl who was still sitting at the far table on the opposite side of the room.

There was something odd about the expression on the man's face. Still holding the paper as if he were reading, Mycroft took several seconds to undertake a clandestine observation of the Irishman's features. Given that Carol Williams had actively sought out her old college friend for the express purpose of a private conversations, a conversation that deliberately excluded both of their male companions, he would have expected Rawl's mood to be angry and possessive and for his expression to evidence as such.

But it wasn't anger and possessiveness that were written across the man's face.

It was fear.

_Fear?_

Why would Devlin Rawl fear Carol Williams talking to her old friend? What could Williams possibly say to Grace that would cause Rawl even a moment's concern? Behind the newspaper, Mycroft felt a frown edge across his face. There was something wrong here and he didn't know what it was; a problematic notion in its own right. He stood and made his way to the nearest exit into the gardens.

Following the same path he and Grace had taken the previous afternoon, Mycroft strolled along the gravelled walkway between rows of carefully cultivated rose bushes, their fragrant blooms already alive with bees in the morning sun.

The King's Tree was directly ahead and he turned to face the sun, momentarily closing his eyes to enjoy the warmth on his face.

The soft crunch of approaching footsteps made him look to see a smiling Grace standing in front of him. Carol Williams was nowhere to be seen.

"Ready to go for that walk?" she asked, holding out her hand.

Clearly the discussion she'd had with her old friend had not been overly unsettling as there was no overt tension in her stance or expression.

"Quite ready," he smiled, taking her fingers in his own and allowing her to lead him out of the gardens and out, down a small side road past the rugby grounds, towards the centre of the town.

###

The names on the streets reminded Mycroft that, though Cambridge had been built by British kings, it was the British queens who had taken the city to their hearts and made so much of the place, as evidenced by the number of roads, public buildings and colleges that bore the names of their esteemed patronesses. _Edith, Catherine, Margaret of Anjou_ ...

The morning was lovely, and the air was still around them and already warm as they walked. And as they walked, Grace explained the conversation she'd had with Carol Williams.

"She's terrified he's going to beat her up," Grace let her hand lie inside his without the slightest self-consciousness. It felt perfectly right for them to be this familiar and would naturally maintain their cover story. "She wants to go home, but she know if she does, it'll be worse for her when they meet up again," she shook her head angrily. "I told her to simply leave him; that I'd come with her to collect her gear if necessary, and that she could come and stay with me if she needed a place for a while," she added. "But Carole's determined that this is simply a bad mood that Devlin's got himself into and that she can ride it out."

"You know that Rawl is unlikely to change?" Mycroft looked down at the blonde mop of hair beside him. She was wearing it more rumpled and less orderly this morning. He found he rather liked it this way. "He's a thug and a bully and nothing your friend does will make an iota of difference."

Grace sighed. "I know," she said quietly. "And I think that, deep down, Carol knows it too, but she's so hung up on the relationship between them, she can't see, or is unwilling to see the reality of the thing."

He couldn't protect all her friends, but perhaps, there might be something he could do for Carol Williams. "If your friend needs a little help in the leaving of Devlin Rawl, I may be able to assist her," he offered. "Just sufficient to see her out of his reach."

"Would you?" Grace stopped, turning to smile up at him, her face open and terribly pleased. "Would you really?"

Looking further down the road, Mycroft took her hand and kept on walking, saying nothing for the moment lest the unexpected tightness in his chest betray him. He appeared to be in the grip of a series of unexpectedly emotional responses where Grace Chandler was concerned and, while he wasn't overly worried by such a turn of events, he would at least like to have a clearer idea of why. Perhaps it was all the rich food he'd ingested recently.

"I will see what may be done," his words were soft, but no less convincing because of it.

Walking past the open playing fields alongside Queen's College and turning down into Silver Street, Mycroft kept vigilant; his eyes constantly watching the passing vehicles and other pedestrians. He had no doubt that at least two of his agents were within his line-of-sight at any time, although he had not attempted to locate them. He trained his people well and he had made it clear that all eyes were to be on Grace, on _Reader_, for the duration. Crossing the Cam, they turned down Trumpingdon and walked on, past the old red phone box and into the main drive leading towards the Fitzwilliam Museum.

Avoiding the main entrance, Grace pulled him beyond the large plate-glass opening, leading him around to the side and along a plain brick wall towards a barely visible doorway, the same dusty brick colour as the wall into which it was set.

"Let's see if they've bothered to change their security in the last ten years," she grinned up at him as her fingers located the small steel keypad directly beneath the handle. Thinking for a moment as she recalled the six-digit code, she lifted her eyebrows, held her breath and gave him a wide-eyed blink as she pressed down on the handle ... and it turned with a soft _clunk_.

"Apparently not," she grinned, opening the door inwards and stepping swiftly inside.

Closing the door behind them gave Mycroft a moment's pause as it meant cutting off any direct assistance from his staff, although they would undoubtedly already be aware of _Reader's_ location.

"It's just you and I in here," he kept his voice low as Grace navigated them down several dimly-lit passages, finally opening a half-glassed door and pulling him into the very large and very long book-filled room that hosted the Fitzwilliam's stacks. "If there's any trouble, we'll have to deal with it ourselves."

"What possible trouble could there be in the working library of a Cambridge museum?" Grace scoffed faintly. "I doubt anyone has been back here for days. When I was researching conservation documents in these rooms, sometimes I'd be by myself for a week at a time," she paused, looking around. While the museum's security codes might have remained the same, she couldn't say the same about the room layouts. There had been quite a reorganisation around the place ... which was odd in itself.

"What's the matter?" Mycroft felt her fingers tense inside his hand. "Problem?"

"Not really," Grace found she was whispering. "But these rooms have all been changed around and I'm trying to get my bearings."

Casting his eyes around the place, Mycroft was immediately able to observe that not only had there been a number of major alterations to the fixtures in the room, but they had all taken place in the very recent past, judging by the lines and levels of dust on the floor.

"Someone has gone through this facility looking for something with great care," he pulled her towards the nearest high-density mobile steel shelving unit, spinning the circular winding-gear and waiting until the shelf had moved silently away from the next shelf in line. "Look," he said, pointing down at the dusty floor. "See?"

At first Grace wasn't sure what she was supposed to be looking at, until she realised Mycroft was pointing at a longitudinal indentation in the wooden flooring of the room which ran from the front of the shelving system right to the back. _Even the Montel system had been moved_. She sucked down a sharp breath. That was a massive amount of work to have done; whoever did this had made a very serious effort to find something.

"You think whoever did this was looking for my notebook, don't you?" Grace kept her voice at a whisper, looking suspiciously now at anything that seemed wrong or out of place.

"It would be unwise to discount anything at this stage," Mycroft murmured, scanning the piles of books on various tables, as well as those stacked higgledy-piggledy in the mobile storage units, although to see everything, they'd have to wind each shelf open before they could get inside to check the contents.

"However if whoever turned this place over did it in search of your notebook, I think we can assume they didn't find it," he added, narrowing his eyes.

"How do you know?" Grace stared around at everything wondering which hat he'd pulled that one from.

"From the dust-lines alone, it's safe to say the entire room has been rearranged from one end here," he pointed to the door behind them, "right up to the furthest shelves over there," he nodded at the neatly piled texts far away along the most distant of the walls. "If you were looking for a single book, would you trouble to move every volume in this room?" he asked. "There have to be thousands of them. Why move a single one more than you need to do? If you found the one book you were after, wouldn't you stop the search immediately?"

Of course. Nobody would have moved any more books than absolutely essential. Therefore if the entire collection had been investigated, it really was probable that her notebook wasn't here. It wouldn't hurt to have a brief look though, just in case.

About to suggest that she undertake a quick _recce_ while they were here, the sound of a softly-closing door echoed quietly down the empty passageways.

Grace knew instantly that something was wrong. Every door into the passages was a fire door: heavy, solid things with a strong automatic closure. Every time they were released, they closed with a loud thud. In fact, the only way to _avoid_ making a loud noise was to hold them firmly back, allowing them to close deliberately and slowly in order to forestall any sound. _And someone had just done exactly that_.

Dragging at Mycroft's hand, she pulled him swiftly towards the mobile shelf nearest to the door, spinning the circular opening mechanism just enough to edge it away from the rear wall against which it closed. Beckoning him with an urgent gesture, she slid herself sideways along into the narrow gap she'd created, edging along right to the very end of the shelf.

There was a near full-height alcove hidden behind the solidly stacked shelves with nothing in it except a number of stacked scrolls of paper.

"In here, _quick_," she hissed, hopping up into the narrow cavity and flattening herself against the inside of the steel-framed cabinet. Half-stepping in beside her, Mycroft immediately became aware of two things.

The first, that the headroom in the alcove was significantly less than he required to stand upright and second, that the only way he could fit into this small recess without kneeling would be to occupy a certain amount of Grace's space.

As he hesitated, the footsteps stopped outside the entrance to the room. Then they both heard a sound which had him moving completely into the confined aperture without a second thought.

It was the sound of a new clip of ammunition being slid into a semi-automatic pistol and he knew it well.

Sliding both arms around her, he leaned forward until his head was almost resting on Grace's shoulder. The shelf was just sufficiently deep that anyone looking down the narrow gap between the shelf and the wall would be unlikely to see any part of them, as long as they were able to remain concealed inside this tiny nook.

Feeling the tension in his straining muscles, Grace wrapped her own arms around Mycroft's back, trying to take as much of his weight as she could in this cramped and difficult position. Hearing the door open and someone enter the room, she held her breath, clutching Mycroft forcefully to her, just as she felt his arms tighten around her shoulders. They would be safe in this little alcove; it was a hiding place most students discovered early on when they worked down here in the stacks ... especially useful if you wanted to avoid being thrown out before you were ready to leave. It was an equally good spot to stash the odd bottle of vodka for those nights when the place grew cold and inhospitable.

Not daring to move in case he made the smallest sound against the inflexible steel of the casing around him, Mycroft found that he was leaning more and more against Grace as their positions quickly became uncomfortable. In an attempt to redirect his thoughts, he focused instead on the scent of the woman nestled in his arms as his close warmth heated her skin. It was an intoxicating therapy and he found his body instinctively easing.

The footsteps echoed down towards the far end of the room.

"Relax, I have you," her whisper was low in his ear. "I won't let you fall."

"Wouldn't want to be found in such a compromising situation with me, _eh?_" his words were as soft as hers.

Her fingers stroked a wayward curl away from his face. "I could fall in love with you like this," she murmured against his cheek.

"That would be a very bad idea," he was leaning almost completely against her now, the heat and weight of his body pressing her hard into the supporting steel. Despite the urgency of the moment, the feel of her so completely confined beneath him was ridiculously arousing. "An extraordinarily bad idea," his words faded to nothing as he tilted his head and found her mouth, kissing her softly for as long as he had the breath to do so.

The footsteps returned from the far end of the long room. Someone was walking very slowly back up towards the main door into the stacks, pausing every now and again to check for any hidden places of concealment, probably. There was the faint sound of one of the mobile shelves being spun apart from its neighbour, and Grace hoped whoever it was wouldn't try it with the one they were currently hiding within. As they were now, they were well-hidden. However, if someone decided to open their shelf completely away from the wall and then walked down to the far end, there would be no evading discovery.

The sound of the opened shelf being closed again was something of a relief; hopefully, whoever it was searching wouldn't feel the need to check out too many of the individual shelves.

There was a long pause of silence, during which Mycroft slowed his breathing in order to track the slightest indication of movement. If they were about to be exposed, he would pre-empt the moment by calling in his people while he stalled the undoubtedly hostile presence; he would not have Grace at risk.

_Mine. To protect_.

Suddenly, the footsteps walked swiftly back to the door, opening it and receding into the distance as the fire door clunked closed under its own weight. About to shift position, Grace felt her arms gripped tighter as Mycroft prevented her from moving for the moment.

"Old trick," he whispered faintly, moulding her body to him, breathing her in and shamelessly revelling in such exquisite closeness.

The heat of him, the rising intensity of his scent; the feel of his breath on her skin and the low vibration of his voice in her ear was driving her slightly mad with ... what? _Desire?_ Want? _Need?_ Grace knew only that the nearness of this man was messing with her head and playing tricks with her awareness. If he asked her to run naked through the entire library as a distraction, she would probably have done it without a second's hesitation.

After several long moments of silence, the footsteps sounded once again _still inside the room_. The noise of the door opening and closing was next, as was the sound of Mycroft's breathing still close to her ear. His arms were tight around her and Grace realised she was still unable to move until he relaxed his grip. After a wait of another few minutes, he relaxed and she was able to draw in a deep breath for the first time in ten minutes.

"_Ahhh_," Mycroft stepped carefully to the floor, allowing his back and shoulders to stretch back up to their normal posture. It was uncomfortable after being cramped and tense for so long, but at least they had remained undiscovered.

"Who was that?" she asked as he helped her edge back up along the wall towards the door. "Someone we knew?"

"Might have been," he was still listening for untoward sounds. "Or a Russian or GIS operative monitoring this area for incursions," he said, guiding her out. He paused. "Unless someone knew we would be coming here this morning?" he met her eyes. "Did you tell anyone?"

Of course she hadn't told anyone. _Who would there have been for her to tell?_ Grace set her jaw, about to deny his question with some vigour.

And then she hesitated.

She _had_ discussed their planned visit with someone. She had mentioned it to Carol Williams; only in passing and only to allay her friend's concern that they were both going to leave Cambridge that morning.

Mycroft watched as she swallowed, the expression on her face saying more than words.

"Who?" he asked, thinking. "Your old friend, by any chance?"

Nodding slowly, Grace met his eyes again. "I'm so sorry," she swallowed again. "I didn't want Carol to think we were leaving for good," she added. "Do you think she would have told Devlin?"

"Almost certainly," Mycroft nodded, wrapping a long arm around her shoulders. "Which provides us with a good idea of who our mystery visitor was," his fingers massaged the top of her shoulder. "At least we can deduce now, rather than merely suspect."

Heaving a deep breath, Grace leaned into his touch. "So what next?"

"It seems redundant to spend further time in here," Mycroft looked around the long room. "Thus I suggest we pay a visit to Erwood's study to see if anything might jog an idea loose inside your head," he turned, smiling down at her. "That exceptional, beautiful head of yours," he added softly, sliding a hand up the ivory-white skin of her cheek into her hair, guiding her closer to him. "Despite doing your best to get us both ambushed, you are profoundly distracting, you know," he muttered, staring down into a pair of grey eyes. "At any moment I may become unaccountable for my actions."

"Rubbish," she smiled circumspectly, still conscious of her recent blunder. "Let's go and see Rafe's old office."

"At Clare Hall?"

"That's the only place he ever had an office, I think," she held his hand as he opened the door and peered into the passageway. Pulling her after him, Mycroft was already on the phone to his people. "There will be a car arriving for us by the side entrance in three minutes," he said. "Not the Jaguar."

"Then we should go and wait by ..." Grace was stopped in her movement towards the exit by the grip of both his hands on her shoulders. Turning her towards him, his smile was ruinous, his gaze dark with meaning.

"Profoundly distracting," he murmured, leaning forward to find her lips and draw her into an uninhibited kiss, his arms sliding closely around her back making it difficult for her to move or even wriggle as he took his time with her mouth, a muffled groan vibrating in his chest as she participated wholeheartedly in the embrace.

With a deep inhale he straightened unhurriedly to his full height, his eyes still on hers and a mild expression on his face. "Much better," he said, watching her pale cheeks warm with colour. Taking her hand, he tugged her towards the end of the passage and the outer door.

###

The place hadn't changed all that much since the last time she was here. A moderate-sized office; square, with windows along one wall and books around the rest. Rafe Erwood's desk, a dark and boring oblong of heavy wood sat where it had always sat, facing the doorway to his office. There was an old desktop computer and printer taking up a third of the desk on the left side, leaving a large and mostly-clear writing space on the rest of it. An ancient handle-less mug did service as a pen-holder beside the PC, and there was a thin scattering of printed white sheets coving the scarred wooden desk top. Despite the distance of time, the smell of the place brought her right back to the many hours she had spent in this room asking questions and hoping her studies had been on track. Everything was as she remembered. Casting her gaze around the room, Grace started looking for anything that she _couldn't_ remember.

The air was cold in the office. Stale, too; the unlived-in state making it obvious the room had not been opened much since Erwood had died, over a week ago.

"Nobody will know we are in here," Mycroft spoke from behind her. "This entire section of the floor has been restricted since his death; take your time."

"What am I looking for?" Grace allowed her eyes to scan from book-to-book along the densely-packed shelves. She smiled as she remembered sitting in the visitor's chair as Rafe discussed some new acquisitions. He was always excited whenever he'd received a package of new books, whether the books were actually brand new or had been unearthed from some decrepit old bookery somewhere in London, it never made any difference.

And now she was here and Rafe was no more.

"Anything that looks out of place or seems to be missing, if you can remember after all this time," he paused. "Just relax and let your unconscious awareness guide you."

Taking a slow breath, she nodded, walking to the nearest wall of texts, her fingertips brushing the ribs of spine, feeling the different textures of bound leather, fabric and good old book-board.

This was the wall with all the art-history books; the great illustrated compendiums of colour, so heavy Rafe had needed to get the shelves reinforced to take the enormous weight of them all. Shelf after shelf of heavy-covered tomes, each containing massive colour plates of the world's greatest art. A couple of shelves higher were the art biographies; the life and times of the acknowledged classical Greats: Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli. Lifting her eyes, Grace caught sight of the ceiling and smiled.

Rafe had painted it after Van Gogh's _Starry Night_. "That's new," she pointed above their heads. "When I was here last, it was plain white."

"Does it mean anything?" Mycroft squinted slightly as he stared upwards.

"It probably means he was bored and got his hands on a pile of paints one weekend," she smiled, turning to look at the shelves of the middle wall. This was where Rafe had arrayed the more modern art works of his reading collection; the lives of Ernst, Klimdt and Dali were stacked alongside those of Seurat, Monet and Chagall. His Modernist Masterpieces, he used to call this mini-collection. There was nothing out of the ordinary here, Grace saw; nothing new, nothing that was obviously missing.

Turning to assess the last wall of books, the ones directly behind his desk and thus within easy reach of his fingers and ever-active mind, she looked at Erwood's significant collection of classical literature; the shelves of poetry and dozens and dozens of poetry journals in great stacked piles. Then there were the piles of plays and essays on the great writers of the world. Shakespeare, of course; almost an entire half-shelf devoted solely to the Bard's writings alone. Grace noted Rafe had several copies of certain of Shakespeare's plays, each one a distinct version with a different analysis and commentary. The colourful spines of the royal folios ranged from the earliest to the latest: Henry VI to Henry VIII. All the key plays were there; the Kings, the Italians, the tragedies and comedies.

But nothing that looked remotely out of place or unusual.

"There's nothing odd in any of this," Grace turned back to Mycroft, standing silently by the door. "This is stuff he's had forever."

"Is your notebook in here?" he asked thoughtfully, scanning the shelves with a careful eye.

"Not that I can see," Grace shook her head. "Hasn't this room been searched in any case?"

"Not by anyone who knew Erwood," Mycroft sounded vaguely disappointed.

"Sorry," she walked across the room to stand by his side looking gloomy. "I know you hoped this would give you the information you wanted."

"No reason for you to be sorry," he smiled, resting a hand on the curve of her shoulder and meeting her eyes. Clear grey eyes looking up at him in a way that brushed gently at things inside him again. His heart thumped and his chest heaved fractionally as he found himself suddenly without air in his lungs.

"_Omega_," he murmured. "Never be sorry."

His voice; the way he spoke; the intensity of the expression on his face. Grace had no idea what was happening between them, only that _something_ was changing and she'd never felt anything like it before. Part of her wanted to stand there, staring and grinning like a loon. Part of her felt like climbing inside his suit with him and never coming back out. A small part stood in the middle of a dark road somewhere, blinded by approaching car-lights.

She shivered.

"The program of events announced a recital of piano concertos this afternoon," he broke the silence that had fallen between them. "I think we should go, don't you?"

"_Mmm?_" Grace lifted her eyebrows, not really sure what had been asked. She felt a little stupefied.

"_Yes_," Mycroft answered for her. "We should," he nodded, taking her hand again and urging her through the door. The last thing he could afford to think about was having Grace all alone in their room. The mere thought of her soft and confused and smelling sweetly of lemon soap; of the way she was looking at him right now as if he was strong and powerful and something to smile about ... it made him feel ... He blinked.

It made him _feel_.

It was as if he had flung back the shutters and let light shine in. It was electrifying. It was engulfing.

It was _dangerous_.


	6. Chapter 6: Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Caring Is Not An Advantage**

_Omega Mine – A Rose by Any Other Name – Endgame._

#

#

According to the program handed out upon their arrival, there were a number of activities taking place in the afternoon, the piano recital being one. Located in a rather grand and ornate assembly room, the acoustics were superb for the task and the room was already fairly packed when Mycroft found them both a seat next to one of the heavily-panelled walls.

By looking without seeming to be looking, he observed Harris and Delacey sitting next to the front row on the opposite side of the room, apparently deep in appreciation of the recital's program. Glancing down at his own copy, Mycroft saw there was to be an eclectic mix of Mozart, Prokofiev, Brahms and Saint-Saëns, with a few modern embellishments at the end. There were two extremely imposing Steinways currently standing idle, waiting, no doubt for the hands of whichever virtuoso was about to appear.

At that exact moment there was a light smattering of applause as a young woman and an equally young man made their way through the centre of the room, nervous pleasure curving their shy smiles. Seating themselves in the appropriate places, they waited until the room settled before embarking on Mozart's Number Ten Concerto for two. Taking a slow, peaceful breath, Mycroft allowed some of his tension to slip away as he relaxed back into the comfortable padding of his chair and had Mozart soothe, temporarily at least, the savage breast. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the cushions and let the delightful intricacies wash over and through him as his pulse slowed.

Grace sat back and let her thoughts whirl away with the music; a clever composition she knew, but somehow insufficiently powerful for her to become lost in it as she had seen others do. Looking to her right, she saw Mycroft's eyes lightly closed, his mouth a gentle line and with a beatific expression on his face; she smiled. Every time she looked at him now, she was seeing something new, something she hadn't noticed about him before. It was odd that she hadn't perceived all these subtle nuances earlier and she rather worried he might catch her staring. She watched his face from under her lashes.

Despite the fact that she preferred bigger music; the vast symphonies of Dvořák and Rachmaninov and the turbulent harmonies of Mahler and Wagner, Grace had to admit that it was a pleasant enough way to spend a couple of hours in the afternoon. After the last major piece by Brahms, the two young music students launched into a brief repertoire of modern music, including several interpretations of songs, rescored for piano.

After an interesting version of Queen's _Bohemian Rhapsody_, both pianists launched into an unbearably beautiful version of McLean's _Vincent_. Sensing Mycroft emerging from his meditative fugue, she paid a little less attention to him and a little more to the music. Humming the chords beneath her breath, Grace realised the words of the song were running through her brain.

_Starry, starry night.  
Paint your palette blue and grey,  
Look out on a summer's day,  
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul..._

A scorching burn of sudden insight seared through her chest, leaving her gasping, as certain knowledge made itself known. Her back straightening of its own accord, Grace felt her skin prickle with adrenalin as nerve-endings woke from their normal resting state.

"What?" Mycroft's voice was so quiet as to be barely audible above the pianos. "What is it?"

Turning, Grace's wide, wide eyes fixed on his. "I know where my notebook is," she whispered. "We've got to get it before the Russians work it out," she was half-standing as she spoke, already moving beyond the reach of his hand as he tried to catch her and have her sit until everyone was ready to leave. But he was too late, and she was several steps away by the time he was able to move and it was impossible for them to leave without everyone noticing.

Nor could Christine Harris and Lois Delacey follow, since any movement on their part would be altogether too obvious, especially if they left in the same direction as Grace had just done; they had to wait until the concert broke up and others started to move if they wanted to retain their cover. At least a dozen pairs of eyes watched Grace rush out of the room, most showing little more than curiosity.

As she dashed out with little thought in her head except the mind-blowing certainty that had made it impossible for her to stay seated, the one idea burning through her mind was _how clever_. How clever Rafe had been to do what he had done, although she still wasn't exactly sure why he had done it. Perhaps when she had her notebook once more in her hands, that information would be forthcoming.

"Grace, _stop_," Mycroft had caught up to her now outside the assembly room and his fingers curled around the inside of her elbow, forcing her to slow and face him. "What have you remembered? You said you know where your notebook is?"

"I'm almost certain it's still in Rafe's office," she said, pulling away from his restraining hold. "I want to go and see for sure before anyone beats us to it," she added, taking a step down the long passage towards the nearest external door in her haste to be doing something.

"Too many people saw us leave," he shook his head, reaching for her again. "If either of us made a beeline to Erwood's study after that little exit of yours, we'd be hip-deep in hostiles before we knew it," he shook his head again. "We should return to the concert and wait until we're unobserved."

"_You_ might be able to wait," Grace knew she _had_ to check out her suspicion. "I'm not _you_," she hissed, managing to avoid his grasp and take several strides towards the approaching door.

The notion that she was about to fling herself head-first into a potentially dangerous situation without listening to his advice or waiting for the protection of either himself or his people, sparked a flare of exasperation deep inside his chest. He could not permit her safety to be compromised, could not, _would not_, let her walk into danger like this, nor should she be quite so cavalier about her own safety.

"A significant number of people are doing their damndest to keep you _safe_," his voice was little more than an acidic growl. "If you have no thought for your own wellbeing, then at least consider theirs."

"But it might be gone if we _wait_," there was an agonised look on her face.

"At least tell me what you think you know before you go charging off," Mycroft tried for reason.

About to explain exactly what she thought, he raised his hand in caution. "Not here," he muttered, taking her hand and leading her up the stairs to the second floor and along the endless passageway to their room. Unlocking the door, he ushered her through, closing and securing the door behind him.

"It's the _books_," Grace turned, her fingers wide in the air. "Rafe's _books_," she added, as if that would be sufficient information.

At his slight frown, she clapped a hand over her eyes. "He was a brilliant _Conservationist_," she groaned at her inability to have seen it earlier.

_Of course_ ... joining up the vaguely placed dots, Mycroft realised immediately what the man had done. Grace's notebook _was_ in Rafe's office, but disguised as something else. Hence the painting on the ceiling. He would have needed to use various paints and solvents for the job and a decorated ceiling would have concealed the smell of the paints and other fumes. While there had been any number of large texts on Erwood's shelves, there were only a few hefty enough to have been the hidden notebook.

The royal folios on the shelf directly behind his desk; right where he could keep in actual physical touch with the thing. The massive volumes of Shakespeare, the pride of his collection.

"The playbill in his pocket when he was found," Mycroft allowed a faint smile to curve his mouth. "_The Tempest_," he blinked. "He knew he was being watched and was going to ask you to collect it for him," he added, meeting her eyes. "Your notebook is on the shelf behind his desk wearing false colours, quite literally."

"_Yes_," Grace nodded eagerly. "Which is why we need to go and get it _now_, before anyone else works it out."

"After the way you sprinted out of the performance, anything you do now will be under scrutiny," he threw her a warning glance. "Why you couldn't have waited until the end of the recital and then left like any normal person ..." he sighed.

"But then, I'm not like any _normal_ person, am I?" his unwillingness to support her plan and let her, finally, unearth the much sought-after book was beginning to rankle. If he didn't want to go and get the bloody thing, then she'd do it by herself, after all, Grace reasoned, she knew this place far better than he did. She felt a rising tension in her stomach and her pulse lifted.

The changing cast of her expression told Mycroft everything he needed to know.

"No," he shook his head, adamant. "You're not going to Erwood's office. We will wait," he said, looking down his patrician nose at her, "until nobody is watching you or thinking about your precipitous exodus."

Hardly believing what she was hearing, Grace stared at him, her eyes widening. "I see," she snapped, irritated. "It's okay for us to go and investigate things when it suits your purpose, but the second _I _want to go and check something out, it's all just a bit too _much_ of an effort, is that it?" she felt her face warm. "I don't need your permission to do anything," she added, stepping to the door and turning the handle. "It's broad daylight outside and perfectly safe ..." the door wasn't opening.

He had locked it.

"Open this, please," she deliberately didn't look at him.

"No. It's too dangerous for you to go to Erwood's office. I can have Perdue and Granger go, or we can try later," Mycroft's words were soft and even and implacable.

"I'd like to leave this room. Please unlock this door," Grace felt her inner tension spiralling wildly out from her core. Her skin was tingling with it, even her scalp felt hot. She had no idea why this was such an important thing to her, but it was. It _was_.

"No."

Feeling an inexplicable rush of anger, she swivelled on the spot. "You cannot keep me here against my will," her words were as soft as his, flat and deadly calm, almost without inflection, although she felt about ready to explode.

"I think you'll find I can," Mycroft folded his arms and stared her down.

Grace felt like laughing. _How dare he?_ _Who did he think he was?_

"You asked for my trust, and now I see it was only my co-operation you wanted," she smiled coldly. "Well, to hell with you," she snapped, heading across the room to the window above the Cam, she had the thing wrenched open before he realised her plan. In three long strides, he had hold of her upper arms and was turning her away from the partially open window back into the room.

"I will not allow you to venture your safety over something so patently risky," his fingers dug into her arms as she struggled to free herself. "Of course I wanted your co-operation," he hissed, "but I thought you sufficiently adult to understand the one usually accompanies the other," his face was stormy.

"And now I see this whole thing was never about my _safety_," Grace felt a rising fury chase the breath from her lungs as she fought him. "It was always about what _you_ wanted; _whatever_ it took to get _you_ the result you wanted, of course, I should have realised," she struggled uselessly, then let herself relax as his fingers tightened even further. "You're hurting me," she husked.

Instantly, and with a distracted look of horror, Mycroft disengaged his hands from her arms, as the unwanted image of Devlin Rawl sprang into his mind. Standing back in confusion, he suddenly had no idea what to say.

"I ... I ..." he looked down at his outstretched hands then back at her face. "I ... am sorry ..."

His expression was of such manifest self-disgust that Grace felt her anger vanish in the exact moment a much warmer emotion took its place.

"You're a bloody _arse_, Mycroft Holmes," she stated emphatically, staring up into a pair of mortified blue eyes. "And you're driving me mad," she cried, grabbing the immaculate lapels of his beautifully tailored suit and dragging herself up to his level.

It was more of a collision than a kiss, but this time Grace refused to give him the upper hand. Sliding her arms around his neck, she gave everything to the embrace, groaning as she felt his grip tighten automatically about her once again.

"Madness is relative," he muttered, inhaling roughly as he sought a balance between toppling them both to the worn carpet and losing the pulse-hammering sensation of Grace's mouth on his. Taking the kiss and making it his own, his long arms wound around her, compelling a more complete body-contact between them, fingers buried in her hair, his lips hard and determined. The sheer intensity of the connection made coherent thought effectively impossible.

Unable to get enough of his arms around her, Grace felt herself curving beneath his tall frame as he bent her closer, his kisses compelling and greedy and demanding as if he were a starving man and she was the most delectable morsel in sight. It still wasn't enough; she needed more. She wanted ... everything.

"_Alpha_," her entire body ached for his touch, his mouth, the feel of him. "_Please_."

"_Dear Christ_," his voice cracked as his arms closed even tighter, lifting her up against his chest as he turned them both towards the bed.

Laying her down on top of the old-fashioned covers, he spread himself over her, their fingers tangled together, the length of his body a delicious weight as he continued to relish the curve of her mouth, her throat, the fine skin revealed by the neck of her blouse.

"Too hot," she panted, wriggling away and tearing at the buttons of her top. "Your clothes are too hot."

"Too hot, too cold," his hair was falling into his eyes as he leaned back to slide out of his jacket and loosen his tie, the smile on his face dark and edging towards the predacious.

Slithering out of her jeans, Grace threw them to the floor and knelt up on the bed to attack the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, leaning down to bite softly at his exposed throat as she did, the extraordinarily male smell of him leaving her shaky with want. Eventually she gave up her fumbled attempt at unbuttoning in favour of simply wrapping her arms around his head and stealing another soul-deep kiss. As his arms locked once more around her, Grace sucked down a jagged breath when his fingers gripped the small of her naked back, pulling her hard against him as he responded fiercely, heavy-handed with the need of her.

"_Omega_," the word was a question and an avowal as he lowered her back down to the bedcovers, the tantalising new sensation of unhindered skin between them catching at the air in his chest. Mycroft knew this was a worst-case scenario for the situation at hand; it was dangerous, unjustifiable and totally self-indulgent.

_And he didn't care_.

He didn't care. He wanted this, _had always wanted this_, and now she was his and he was going to keep her no matter what, no matter the things that were between them, the problems, the impossibilities. He had been going slowly insane with desire since their first meeting and now she was here, in his arms, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

He groaned as the irresistible compulsion of her presence seared through him, as the awareness of _Omega_ closed down the rational parts of his mind until all that remained was the darkest heat and instinct.

As Grace wove her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth back down to hers, his thoughts disintegrated until all he could focus on was the woman in his arms; her softness, her tormenting fragrance; her obvious desire for him. It was enough. It was all he needed.

_Omega_, he wrapped her heated hungry flesh up in his own, chasing an imperative physical connection.

_Omega mine_.

###

The light through the window was dimmer when Grace blinked awake. Not moving any other part of her body just yet, only her eyelids, she tried to make sense of where she was and why she had been asleep in the middle of the day.

As she lay on her back, a great weight and warmth surrounded her and she felt her face curve into a massive smile. Looking sideways to her right, she realised Mycroft was still asleep, his face a little crumpled as he lay half on the pillow and half in the crook of her neck, his breathing even and gentle. His right arm lay across her breasts, his palm hooked up towards her shoulder, just as his right leg was curved over her thighs, the heel tucked deftly back beneath her knees. If he didn't want her to vanish while he slept, he had gone the right way about it; she couldn't move.

Not that, quite honestly, she was in any hurry to do so.

Her smile remained as she closed her eyes again, enjoying the feeling of being so entirely enveloped by another person. Robert never slept like this; he was a neat sleeper, rarely moving from his side of the bed, never really possessive about her body. After sex, he hardly touched her; even in sleep, he was a polite, undemonstrative man.

Robert. _Poor Robert_.

But Mycroft was different. He had relished her, every bit of her, reluctant to part his skin from hers for a second. Grace smiled again. He was an ardent and sensual lover; hard to believe if one judged by his manner. On the surface, so restrained and proper; all public-school reserve and aloofness. But in bed ... and now, even in his sleep, he wanted her close, wanted to feel her, all of her.

Grace felt semi-awful about her relationship with Robert in that it was obviously well and truly over. She couldn't string him along, not when she felt this way about another man. _Poor Robert_. A lovely, kind and thoughtful person.

But not for her. Not now. Not since she had met Mycroft. _Alpha_. Whatever became of this impetuous and unintended passion, she could never go back. She wondered how she would tell Robert it had to be over between them. It would hurt him, she knew, and she would have avoided that if she could.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she felt Mycroft's breathing change, becoming a little deeper as he approached wakefulness. Grace waited to see what he would do when his mind rebooted.

There was a pause and then a soft intake of breath close to her right ear.

"I am trying to decide whether I should have you arrested ..."

"Arrested?"

"Or whether keeping you in bed with me until we return to London might be the safest thing to do," his mouth brushed the side of her neck as his long fingers caressed upwards across her throat to hold the other side of her jaw. She closed her eyes once more as his touch sent little tingles all the way through her.

"I think I'd prefer the latter," she breathed as he pulled her closer into his arms, the heat between them already on the edge of something abandoned and irresistible. "Though I don't know if we could expect room service," she added, smiling again.

"And there goes the weekend," he nibbled her ear, rubbing the tip of his nose down the velvet skin over her cheekbone. "Of course you're hungry?"

Rolling over in his arms until they were eye-to-eye, Grace brought up her hands to hold his face.

"Starved," she admitted. "But if you really wanted to stay in bed, I think I might have some toffees in my bag."

"I fear your emergency sugar-stash would be unequal to the task," his eyes were still dark, but his face was smooth and without tension now, an amused curve lifting the corners of his mouth. "I'd rather you maintained your energy-levels as far as possible," he grinned outrageously, nibbling her fingers.

A melting sensation oozed around inside her. Everything about him was beguiling; his mind, his body, his _panache_, everything. And it was becoming increasingly harder to resist. Grace knew she hadn't exaggerated when she'd said she could fall in love with him. Her only concern now was how would she know if she had? And if she did, how would he feel about it? An unrealised furrow appeared between her eyebrows.

"Stop thinking," he said, drawing a warm finger gently along the crease until her skin smoothed out. "There's time enough for thinking when we get back to London," he added, lifting a tendril of hair out of her eyes.

"And are we able to go and get my notebook now?" Grace stroked one of his eyebrows with a delicate fingertip, feeling the hairs flow under her touch. She had the strongest urge to kiss all the parts of his face she might have missed earlier.

"I suggest we freshen up, pop over to Clare Hall, locate the hidden treasure then come back here and change for dinner. I'll have Harris take the book back to London and we can leave tomorrow morning as planned," he said. "Although that does necessitate a second night here in Cambridge," he sighed, his tone mildly regretful. "Although I'm sure we can make the best of it," he added, meeting her eyes again. "Blighty spirit, and all that."

"If you'd really prefer to return to London, we could go as soon as I find the book ..." Grace had no desire to keep him here unwillingly.

"My dear woman, you are going to have to learn when I am joking," he smiled, his tone dry as he propped himself up on an elbow, staring at her mouth. "And when I am deadly serious," he murmured, leaning down and slowly finding her lips with his own. It was warming, rather than heated, but Grace felt his touch all the way down to the pads of her toes.

The shower was too small to share, but the bathroom wasn't and it took several long interludes for them to get properly dressed and decent. Grace felt as if she were full of light; as if something wasn't meant to have happened, but it had, and she was the beneficiary of some unimagined and remarkable good fortune. She felt like walking on tip-toes, like laughing. Life was extraordinary, _unbelievable_.

The first shadows of night were in the clear sky as they exited the college buildings, hand-in-hand like teenagers. Mycroft had already alerted Christine Harris by phone as to their plans, directing that either she and Delacey, or Perdue and Granger meet them outside the front of Clare Hall in approximately thirty minutes.

"I know a short cut through the grounds, We can be there in less than ten minutes," Grace whispered, taking his fingers between hers and leading him down and along the gravelled pathway to the far end of the gardens. Walking swiftly in the growing dark, past the Conference Centre and across the narrow lane dividing Clare from Kings, they strolled in the fine warm evening across well-tended games pitches and past lines of green and increasingly leafy sycamore trees.

About to step out from beneath the shadow of the last tree, Grace felt Mycroft pull her back into the deeper shade.

"Is there a problem?" she whispered, uncertain.

"Yes," he murmured, his eyes scanning her lovely face, taking in each detail. Remembering every curve. It was important that he do this now. "I have to do this," he added, bending his head and finding her mouth, kissing her until her knees threatened to melt.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, leaning into the embrace and not wanting him to stop.

"I know," he breathed, holding her tighter and deepening the kiss until she was limp in his arms. "But my inner brute demands the last say."

"Bad Alpha," Grace barely had the breath to sigh.

"Unquestionably bad," he agreed, sliding fingers through her hair and kissing her until she groaned.

"_Stop_," she whispered, floating. "I can't think."

Releasing her with a reluctant and gusty exhale, Mycroft waited until she found her feet and could see their direction to Clare Hall.

Cutting directly across King's grounds, they found themselves in Herschel Road within mere minutes. The well-lit building of Clare Hall stood before them.

"I assume you know a way in other than through the main entrance?" he asked softly, holding her hand tight in his.

"I know about ten different ways in," Grace smiled. "Not all of them strictly legitimate," she grinned, pulling him after her as she walked towards the rear of the modernist structure, past the dustbins and around to the small service entrance. The door was wedged open a little; a narrow slant of light slicing out into the dark.

"The cleaners always leave the door ajar for a while after they wash the floors," she said. Pushing the door inwards, Grace looked around to ensure nobody was there to ask awkward questions. In a few moments, they had progressed to the foot of the main staircase and were heading up to the next level. The floor where Rafe Erwood had his study.

The area at the rear of the wing was still taped off, but Mycroft had the key to Erwood's office and they were inside within seconds. His fingers found the switch, flooding the room with the harsh illumination of fluorescent light.

Making her way directly to the rear shelves, Grace sat in Rafe's chair, swivelling it until she was within inches of the Shakespeares. Lifting her eyes to Mycroft, she paused. "I might be wrong, you know," she said.

"You're not wrong," he nodded at the books. "Do it."

Taking a very deep breath, she turned back to the large, folioed books arrayed so beautifully, running a gentle fingertip along the spines until it rested upon _The Tempest_. This was the play featured on the playbill found in Rafe's pocket after the fatal collision. This was the important title he had tried to get to her before he died over a week ago.

Sliding her hands beneath and above the large volume, Grace tugged it carefully from its brethren.

The size was right; the shape and general heft of the thing was right. In moments, she knew her little epiphany had been correct. Laying the artistically-converted leather-bound notebook across Erwood's desk, she sighed slowly.

"It's here," she confirmed, opening the front cover and seeing her own handwriting on the facing page. "This is my notebook from the Tbilisi National Museum," she looked back up at him. "Now why on earth would anyone be after this?" she asked helplessly. "It's a big, heavy old book," she said. "Not terribly exciting. Why would anyone kill Rafe because of something like this?"

"Not because of the book itself," Mycroft approached the wide desk, leaning forward and brushing his fingers lightly across the inside of the opened front cover. "But because of what it has concealed all these years," he added, turning his eyes towards the handle-less mug of pens and assorted pencils. Stretching over, he lifted out a small plastic scalpel, extruding the thin blade with a soft click.

With one hand carefully on the inside of the front cover, Mycroft slid the razor gently gently down and along three sides of the taut inside front paper of the book, carefully folding the sealed paper away from the thick, stiffened cover behind it.

In seconds, the entire front sheet had been freed from its binding. Mycroft met her eyes and smiled, looking back to the book and the loosened endpaper.

With a finger and thumb, his lifted it back and away from the leather cover, revealing ...

He had been joking earlier when he'd spoken of hidden treasure, but now Mycroft realised his jest was closer to reality than he could possibly have imagined.

Grace felt her heart stop. She knew it had stopped because it thudded so hard when it started again that it almost hurt.

Beneath the dark and unexceptional endpapers of her notebook there was now something fragile and golden; something that shone wildly, reflecting the harsh actinic light of the fluorescent into a million gilded hues. She held her breath as Mycroft's sure fingers lifted the thick oblong of pure gold icon away from its protective backing, laying it, finally free at last, upon the dark timber of Erwood's desk top.

In shades of beaten metal and brilliant enamels, the priceless piece of art depicted a woman holding a baby to her breast, both heads weighed down by haloes of gleaming white. Tiny diamonds outlined each halo, with equally minute sapphires for the eyes of each figure. The robes of each were wafer-thin slices of amber laid onto the gold. It was a staggering beautiful piece of art.

"The Smolensk Madonna," Mycroft breathed reverently. "This has been missing since the fall of the city to the Germans in 1941," he leaned back, unwilling to desecrate such a sacred thing by standing too close. "Made by Abel Besarion, a Georgian goldsmith in 1917, for the Empress Alexandra," he said. "It never reached the Imperial court and was last heard of in a very private collection in Smolensk, hence its name," he added.

Swallowing very hard indeed, Grace hunted for her voice. "How long has that been inside my notebook?" she asked, in wobbly tones.

"Since you were studying at the National Museum in Tbilisi, all those years ago," he smiled down at her woebegone face. "The Georgians needed a safe way to get it out of the country so the Russians couldn't get their hands on it, and then you and your fellow students arrived for your conservation internship and a vast idea of smuggling and deception was born," he added, standing back and letting the air slide out from his chest. "You've been protecting it more or less ever since," he added, still smiling.

"How much is it worth?" her voice was still unsure which way it was expected to go and thus remained on the craven side of hushed.

"Value?" Mycroft drew in a slow breath and puffed out his cheeks in thought as if the worth of this thing might not be measured in simple concrete terms. "Millions, undoubtedly," he sounded unfazed. "Likely many multiples of millions, depending on who wanted it the most, which explains why both the GIS and the Russians were so very interested in locating this book."

"And it's been inside my notebook all this time?" Grace felt her throat start to work again and so she swallowed some more. "And Rafe knew about it?"

"Yes, he did," Mycroft nodded. "He was probably the one who put it in there, and it got him killed."

"Who killed him?" Grace couldn't lever her gaze away from the flat sheet of solid gold, mere inches away from her fingertips. "Was it the Russians?"

"If Erwood was known to be a Russian agent, then most likely the GIS, or at least," he paused, thinking. "Russians posing as GIS."

"Who owns it?" she wanted to stroke it with her fingers, to feel the soft coolness of the metal. But she didn't. Too much the coward.

"And excellent question," Mycroft leaned back. "I suspect both the Russians and the Georgians will offer unassailable arguments."

Stepping away from the table, he reached for his phone, speaking quietly to whichever of his people had responded. Looking into the future, he saw there were arrangements to be made and they had to be made now. He felt an unexpected and poignant weight descend on his shoulders.

"Can you replace it within the book's cover?" he asked carefully, clearly unwilling to touch the piece any more than necessary. "We can't leave it here and I'd rather not be seen carrying a slab of bejewelled-gold around Cambridge."

"Yes, of course," Grace took a slow breath to calm her heart rate, pulling open several of the drawers in Erwood's desk. "He must have had some somewhere ..." she muttered, smiling as she found several sets of white cotton gloves in the lowest drawer. Sliding her fingers inside a pair, she flattened down the opened end-paper, examining the supporting bed inside the front cover. It was perfectly smooth and precise fit.

Taking another deep breath, she slid one edge of the paper beneath the rolled hem of gold, lifting the piece sufficiently that she could hold it off the desk with the tips of her gloves. Sliding her fingers in beneath the metal, Grace levered it up from the desk just enough so that now she was able to insert the fingertips of both hands beneath the artefact. Supporting it delicately on her fingertips and by the strengthened edges, she lifted the surprisingly heavy weight across to its bed, sliding it gradually from her hands, back into its snug-fitting compartment. Adjusting the golden sheet until it was exactly positioned; she pressed the sides and corners firmly into place. Rolling the heavy covering paper back to its previous position, she pulled out a roll of wide matt art-tape which she proceeded to cut into exact lengths, each one corresponding with one of the three cut sides of the end-paper. Fixing each cut securely into place, Grace pressed the tape hard to fix it, before picking up a small burnishing tool and rubbing the rounded end over the tape until even the matt gleam had vanished.

"There," she smiled, holding the book up for his inspection. "Would you know where the joins were if you hadn't made them yourself?"

It was a reasonable question. Even in the harsh light from the fluorescents, he could barely make out the faint line of the cuts.

About to commend her repair, Mycroft fell suddenly silent at the sound of a footfall beyond the door. Flipping the book closed, he grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him.

"Remember," he whispered as he watched the inner handle of the office door begin to turn. "Everything I do is for your protection, always remember that," he smiled vaguely as the door opened inwards, revealing a shadowy figure standing out in the darkened passage.

A shadowy figure holding a gun.

"I wondered if you two might be in here," the soft Irish tones of Devlin Rawl emerged as he stepped forward into the light, a broad smile curving his mouth as he observed the book on the desk between them. "And you've found the darlin' thing we've all been chasing after these long months now," he grinned, waving the gun until they both backed away from the desk. Leaning forward, he pulled the heavy leather-bound volume towards him and straightened up, waving them now towards the open door.

"We're all going to take a little drive," he smiled. "A bit of a jaunt in the moonlight," he added, cheerfully. "A bitty journey to put a final full-stop to these shenanigans."

"My people are outside," Mycroft sounded uninterested in Rawl's rhetoric. "They won't hesitate to kill you, you know," he said. "Put down the gun and we can all walk away from this."

"For a Corporate lawyer, you certainly have a funny way with ya," Devlin laughed. "Knew you weren't," he grinned. "Our Gracie here would never go for anyone with an establishment stick up their arse, would ya, love?" he smiled at her, apparently indifferent to her icy expression. "What are ya, then?" he asked. "A Copper? James Bond? There's nobody outside and no point pretending that there is," he said. "Come on then," he waved the muzzle of the gun at them again. "Time we were out of here before the cavalry actually does arrive," he indicated the door. "Off we trot."

Taking her hand, Mycroft squeezed her fingers reassuringly. "Everything will be alright," he murmured. "Trust me."

"Always," Grace squeezed back as they walked out of Erwood's old study and along the dim corridor towards the top of the stairs. Knowing that Mycroft had indeed contacted his agents only moments before Devlin had appeared, Grace wasn't immediately worried, although the way her old boyfriend kept waving his gun around was cause enough for concern. He herded them down the stairs and around to the same entrance though which they'd entered.

It was an odd-looking weapon, Grace realised, not understanding quite how odd until they had reached the exit where, without a word of warning, Rawl pointed it at Mycroft and fired.

A soft hiss of air, followed by the instant flight of a small, bright-red art which lodged in the upper arm of his jacket. Though he brushed it away at almost the instant it struck, it was clear the dart had delivered its payload as Mycroft staggered, one hand flat against the nearest wall as his legs buckled slowly beneath him. In moments, the tall, dark-haired man was unconscious on the cold tiled floor.

"And are you about to come quietly, or do you want the same, Gracie, my darlin'?" Rawl was still smiling.

The furious desire to lunge at him must have been so very clear in her eyes that he shrugged before sending a dart into the top of her shoulder.

"I'll take that as a no, shall I?"

It was the last thing that she heard.

###

He awoke to movement; the regular, surging movement and sound of a basic engine that said _commercial vehicle_. It was dark but not entirely black as he opened his eyes, taking in the metal of the van's roof above his head and the feel of a pressed metallic grid beneath his shoulders and hips. The faint whiff of diesel irritated his nose but the smooth acceleration of the engine spoke of a good road surface, and plenty of it. He rubbed his fingertips briefly against the bare steel beneath him; the paint was still unscored or scratched. A newish vehicle in that case, likely this year's model. Judging by the approximate size and vague contours of the interior, as well as the light silvery colour his eyes had adjusted to see, then he was in the back of a recently-purchased Ford Courier on a motorway, somewhere.

Moving his head fractionally, he saw Grace lying unconscious beside him, her breathing normal and regular; asleep, then, but not in distress. _Good_. He felt a light headache, no doubt the after-effects of whatever concoction had been in the dart. Probably some derivative of Fentanyl given the rapid onset of unconsciousness and the faint aftertaste of salt in his mouth. The dart gun Rawl waved at them had been a modified Webley, not much use over distance, but effective enough in close quarters. Lifting his Hunter from its pocket, Mycroft was just able to make out the time; twenty minutes to nine. If they had been travelling anywhere close to this speed since they left Cambridge, they could be eighty to one hundred miles from Clare Hall by now. The next question, of course, was their heading. North, West or South? By now they could be near Birmingham or Bristol or, of course, driving around the M25. Listening hard, he was able to make out the sound of other traffic as the van slowed, lights at a junction, probably. They had left the motorway.

There followed a seemingly interminable series of starts and stops as the van made its way around whatever city it had entered, and it was a city, Mycroft could tell by the sheer volume of other vehicles around them. Was this London? Had Rawl brought them all the way back to the Capital? If so, why? It would have been easier to simply dump them somewhere remote; their deaths were not necessary, only their silence, until the golden treasure had been successfully spirited away to Mother Russia, after which there could be no proof, only accusations.

The surface beneath the van's wheels became uneven and bumpy, but not sufficiently erratic to suggest potholes or a neglected roadway. Mycroft nodded to himself; _cobblestones_. The van slowed carefully, pulling to a halt. In the immediate silence, he heard, faintly though definitively, the chimes of a clock striking nine. He allowed himself a brief smile. _Big Ben_.

London, then.

The driver's door opened and clanked closed. Footsteps around the side of the van. The rattle of a key in the locked rear doors. Moonlight and the night-lights of London.

Devlin Rawl appeared, framed in the opening, only dark sky behind him.

Mycroft frowned. There were few places in the City that lacked a backdrop of _something_; buildings, brightly lit shops, trees ... something. Where were they?

The gentle sound of water brought its own answer at the same moment the salt-smell of the Thames washed away the fading diesel fumes.

They were by the river, on the actual embankment somewhere. Had to be fairly close into town to be able to hear Big Ben, but in some place without encroaching buildings ... somewhere open, near the river ... cobblestones ...

Without turning his head, Mycroft realised the van had parked next to the steel railings almost directly in front of the Tower of London, some fifty yards or so from Tower Bridge. Alive with tourists during daylight hours, after dark it was much less populated. Quite the lover's lane, in fact, for courting couples.

"Out," Rawl waved the Webley again. "And no messin', or I'll have you out cold with one o' these darts and then be chucking you in the river," he announced. "Don't tempt me to do it."

Sliding himself feet-first out of the open doors of the van, Mycroft watched as Rawl first checked Grace's condition before he backed away, maintaining a safe distance between them. The van had been driven right up to the railings, almost directly beneath one of the massive Plane trees that greened the Embankment. The leafy green trees were lovely for the tourists, but played merry hell with his CCTV cameras. The light of a nearby streetlamp lent some illumination to the tableau and he searched for the nearest camera with a clean line-of sight.

"Why here?" he asked, straightening his jacket and brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. "Why bring us all the way down from Cambridge to London? What purpose does it meet?"

"You best be shuttin' up now if you know what's good fer you," Rawl leaned back against the chest-high railings. "We're going to have a little meetin', is what."

"With whom?" Mycroft hardly needed to ask; he had known for some time that Devlin Rawl was not a key player in this _mise-en-scène._ He was hired help; an enforcer, at best. No; Rawl was merely hired help. The real mover behind all this would be Russian or _Tovarich_ to the core.

"That's not for you to ask," the Irishman's voice held a mean edge, as if he'd already used up his quota of niceness for the evening.

Mycroft wondered if he could get the man angry enough to attack him; he knew of multiple methods of disabling an armed assailant, though it would have been easier with his umbrella.

"Waiting for your _master_, eh?" Mycroft leaned back against the van, folding his arms. "Too nervous to handle this last part of the performance all by yourself?" he made no attempt to hide his scorn.

Rawl's face tightened, a spiteful cast to his expression. "Shut the fuck up or you'll soon find out how nervous I'm _feeling_," he snarled, the Alpha in him offended by the idea of _master_.

"But they clearly don't trust you to handle anything more complex than shipping and delivery," Mycroft smiled unkindly. "Never mind, I'm sure you'll eventually work your way up to office boy at some point," his smile was saccharine.

"You posh English bastards are all the same," Rawl stepped closer, a fixed scowl across his face. "Think you're better n' all of us."

"My dear chap, you went to _Cambridge_," Mycroft shrugged. "While I admit it's not Oxford, it was hardly the rat-infested alleyways of post-war Volgograd, was it?"

"You just wait," Rawl brought the Webley a fraction closer.

_Just a little more._

"I could tell you about all the things we've got happening in this fine city of yours," Rawl laughed. "The things I know about, things that you'd give your eye-teeth to hear," he laughed again, louder, a note of shrill conceit in the sound.

"Yes, I'm sure," Mycroft tilted his head a fraction, raising an eyebrow. "But probably nothing of any real use to me," he sighed. "Might I enquire when I can expect your superior to arrive?"

"Superior? _Superior?_" Rawl coughed as indignation caught his breath. "My _superior?_ I'll tell you about my _superior_," he sneered, then stopped suddenly and coughed again, a strange, uneasy sound. An expression of puzzlement furrowed his forehead as he clutched at his throat, another, softer cough bringing the dark stain of blood over his lips.

Devlin Rawl fell to his knees, dropping the gun, both hands now around his throat as he gasped for breath, his chest heaving in search of the air it couldn't contain. In less than a handful of seconds, he was sprawled and very still on the pavement of cobbles at Mycroft's feet, a small but rapidly spreading patch of darkness high up on the back of his jacket.

"Don't even think of it," the voice in the darkness advised him against picking up the gun, an idea clearly in his mind. "This one is far more lethal," Carol Williams walked into the thin glow of the streetlamp. She waved her own gun, a silenced-Beretta, and Mycroft watched, a deep stillness between them.

He had known for some time now that Devlin Rawl was the puppet rather than the master, although he hadn't been certain that Williams was the one pulling the strings.

"Where's Grace?" Williams looked around, curious.

"Still unconscious," Mycroft blinked slowly. "What are your intentions?"

"Someone will be joining us," she checked her watch. "They get the book and then this is all over."

_Someone important enough to be entrusted with the icon. Interesting._

"And what about this little complication?" Mycroft peered at the figure near his feet.

Looking down at Rawl's body, she prodded it with the toe of her shoe. There was no movement and no sound. Devlin was quite dead.

"A bit of a nuisance," she admitted, "But I confess I've been wanting to do that for months," she looked up and met Mycroft's eyes. "It was only a matter of time," she added, standing back a little. "Pick him up."

"And do what?" Mycroft stayed where he was.

"Throw him in the river," Williams pointed the Beretta at the railings. "Shouldn't be a difficult job for a tall chap like you," she added. "Go on. Over the fence, please."

"No," Mycroft thought for a moment before folding his arms and frowning. "I don't think I'll be helping you this evening."

"If you imagine for a second I won't use this on you, then you're very wrong," Carol Williams smiled widely as she pointed her gun directly at his chest. "You can see I'm a pretty good shot and at this range I can hardly miss."

There was the sound of movement from inside the van. In the next second, Grace slid both her feet out through the open doors, lowering them to the stone paving.

"What's going on?" she stood slowly, uncertainly, her confused gaze darting between Mycroft and her old friend, standing several feet away. The sight of Devlin's body made her gasp and jump back. "_Carol?_"

"They made me do it," Williams spoke to Grace now, ignoring Mycroft completely. "One of the guys in the rowing team was recruiting for the Russians," her voice was low and urgent. "I never knew until it was too late, until they had photographs and letters and all kinds of incriminating things," she paused. "They threatened to tell my parents, the university, the police. They said they'd take it to the papers; that I'd go to gaol. They waved the Official Secrets Act in my face," Williams sighed. "They said I'd already committed treason and the only way I'd stay free was to keep on helping them."

"You're involved in all of this?" Grace rubbed a hand roughly across her face, still shaking off the last of the drug. "The murders? _Rafe Erwood?_ You were involved with killing Rafe?"

"He wasn't meant to die," Carol shrugged. "All he had to do was hand the book over and we'd have left him in peace, but he wouldn't. And then the others got to him before we could persuade him to change his mind," she shrugged again. "He should have listened."

"And what about the _others_? The other deaths? What about my apartment? _My books?_" Grace felt the heat of anger wash over her and she stood firmer.

"_Careful_," Mycroft spoke softly as he wrapped a warning hand around her arm.

"You always were an idealist," Williams shook her head dismissively. "But now you have to decide how this is going to end."

"What do you mean, _end?_" Grace was too angry to pretend otherwise. "You've got what you wanted, haven't you? You've got the book and the icon?"

"But that's only half the problem, isn't it?" Mycroft pulled Grace a little closer to him as he spoke. "We've seen too much now and you either have to kill us both or let us both go, and you're not quite comfortable with doing either, are you? I wonder what your handler will say?"

"You talk too much," Williams scowled.

"An occupational hazard," he smiled. "I strongly recommend you put your gun in your pocket, turn around and walk back the way you came," he was deadly serious. "It's the only real option you have, believe me."

"And why should I believe a lawyer?" Williams scoffed.

"While the law has always held a certain fascination, I believe my skills are best evidenced in a somewhat wider landscape," he tilted his head and smiled coldly. "Leave now," he said. "And you won't die tonight."

"I have many powerful people behind me," Carol narrowed her eyes, lifting her gun.

"And I can have them all out of Britain within the week," Mycroft sighed wearily. "Go now, please."

"I can't let you tell anyone about this, about _me_," Williams shook her head, meeting their eyes. "I have to finish this all tonight," she paused, her expression mournful as she looked across at Grace. "I'm so sorry," she said, raising the Beretta.

Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily. He had tried, really, he had. For Grace's sake, as much as anything.

"_Now_," he articulated the word clearly as he stared directly into the CCTV camera affixed to an unremarkable steel pole some twenty yards away.

Three things happened almost simultaneously.

The sound of a single rifle shot echoed across the dark water of the Thames.

A dark flower blossomed in the centre of Carol William's forehead.

Grace Chandler flung herself into his arms.

Sliding himself around the blonde woman's trembling shoulders, Mycroft felt his body grow heavy first with relief and then almost immediately after, with despondency. He had known the moment might arrive, _would_ arrive, he just hadn't imagined it would be this soon. But a sharp pain now, no matter how acute and terrible, would be better than a lingering agony. Holding Grace to his chest for one moment longer, knowing the scent of lemon shampoo would forever be a reminder, he breathed hard and pushed her gently away.

"It's all over now," he said softly as the sound of multiple footsteps rang out along the empty stone pavement. "Everything can go back to normal."

"It'll never be normal again," Grace was almost in tears, reaching for the comfort of his arms.

He swallowed against the tension in his throat. He had no real choice.

_Mine to protect_.

"It will, you'll see," Mycroft watched as the big black Jaguar swept along the embankment towards them. It stopped and Robert Allen got out, standing and waiting uncertainly, his expression vague and unsure.

"Why is Robert here?" her voice was shaky and thick with unshed tears.

"Mr Allen is here to take you home now," Mycroft stepped back, ostensibly to allow his people to collect the two bodies from the cobblestones and load them into the open van.

"But ..." Grace was bewildered. "But after this weekend ... I can't ... you know I can't ..."

"This weekend was a government security exercise in which you assisted admirably in the location and dismantling of an unfriendly foreign unit operating on British soil," he said, his face taut. "For which your Country thanks you, Doctor Chandler."

"_Mycroft?"_ Grace felt herself grow cold with horrible suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"Expressing the thanks of a grateful nation," his smile was stony as he felt the ice inside threaten to impede his breathing. "I shall have my people ensure you are fully recompensed for any damages suffered during your involvement in this matter, but now I must go," he compressed his jaw. "Duty calls."

Grace stood there, a hand clamped across her mouth in shock. She thought she was going to be sick. This was not the man she had grown to know in the last week, this last tempestuous, _amazing_, incredible week. This was some game, surely. _One of his games_. It _had_ to be ... her throat burned with the knowledge that it wasn't.

"You're leaving me? You're saying this thing between us ... that this ... _us_, is finished? That you want me _gone_?"

He felt his heart crack a little. _Protect. Protect. Mine to protect_.

"Please understand, Doctor Chandler, that in the pursuit of national security, we must sometimes do things that are," he swallowed and looked down, "unpleasant."

"_Unpleasant?_ You're calling us_ unpleasant?_" she choked, not believing this was happening.

"I doubt we shall meet again, Doctor," he spoke softly. Even in the darkness, he saw her ivory skin bleach whiter and he ached.

Ached to hold her, to tell her everything would be well. Ached to be a support until she stopped trembling, to be the one to take her in his arms until the dark memories faded.

But he couldn't. Couldn't do this, not even for the woman who had, despite everything, reached into the centre of him, the private place of himself buried so deeply inside that nobody knew there was even a core of him untouched by the chill of his job. _The Iceman_ they called him, and they were right. He couldn't expose her to his life, his inevitable and probably violent death. She was worth more than this, more than _him_.

_Mine to protect_.

"Goodbye," he said, turning sharply on his heel and walking away into the encroaching darkness.

"_Mycroft!_" Grace cried after him, her fingers outstretched, begging. "_Please_ ...

Gentle hands were on her shoulders. "Time to go home, Grace," Robert sounded tired. "Let me take you home."

"It's not _true_," she broke then, sagging almost to the cobblestones, her legs unable to support such unhappiness. "It's not true, he didn't mean it ..."

Wrapping an arm about her shoulders, Robert all but carried her to the rear of the Jaguar, opening the door and levering her inside, clambering in behind and closing the dark door with a certain and very final click.

Watching from the darkest shadows of a leafy Plane tree, Mycroft closed his eyes again and rubbed the lines on his forehead with cold and clumsy fingertips. He waited until the Jaguar had gone, and the van had been driven off to some quiet mortuary where the dead could be turned to whatever purpose the living felt justified in demanding.

"They've just picked up a senior Russian attaché heading in this direction, sir," Perdue walked over and stood, staring out across the water. "He has no reason to be here, no excuse except he said he fancied a walk."

"A bit far from Kensington Gardens," Mycroft sounded very bleak. "Take him back to the Russian embassy and tell him to pack; I'll want to see a confirmed exit visa for him within twenty-four hours."

"He is a _senior_ diplomat, sir ... it'll cause waves."

"_Do it_," Mycroft snarled. _Damage one of mine; lose one of yours_. If the Russians dared complain, he'd send three more of them packing.

"And the security surveillance for Doctor Chandler and Mr Allen?"

"Discontinue ... although ... there is one last thing I want first," the thought of knowing how she was pulled at something deep inside. He advised his agent what he needed. "Then discontinue," his voice was harder. "There will be no requirement for further surveillance on either of them."

A nod, and Perdue was gone.

Alone in the dark, Mycroft Holmes walked, almost aimlessly, his feet finding their own path. It was only when he found himself looking down at the Thames from a significant height that he realised he had arrived at one of the pedestrian walkways on Tower Bridge; the massive construction a brilliant landmark visible for miles.

Leaning against the rail, he stared down at the slow movement of the river at night, glancing around at the City he knew so well and for whom he would gladly give his life to keep safe.

_Mine to protect_.

###

Grace Chandler made it to her desk on the Monday morning, although she never was quite sure how she managed it.

She had told Robert it was over between them almost as soon as they'd reached her apartment; the idea that she could go back as if nothing had happened was untenable and he deserved better than that. He had protested, but not terribly hard, for which she was incredibly glad.

Her apartment had been put back to rights; Grace could see Anthea's hand in all of it; the new computer and the repaired desk. There was also a printed confirmation of an eye-watering sum of money recently paid into her private current account as compensation for all her damaged and destroyed books. A small pile of rare-book auction programs were stacked on the kitchen bench top beside the confirmation, together with their dates and locations, should she want to attend any of them in person.

She had left everything and cried herself into a miserable and restless sleep in her storm-clouded bedroom.

And now she was back at her desk at Twenty Essex Street, pale, drawn, exhausted and wondering where to start the catch-up process. Emails first, she supposed.

Scrolling through a bunch of mainly advertising and marketing messages, deleting as she went, Grace came to one from an unknown point of origin, the heading, curiously, _From a Dragon_. Opening it, her eyes scanned the brief information before she sat back in her chair, her head spinning.

_The Ripoll is yours. Transfer of ownership arrangements are in progress._

_ ~ A Fan of the Wyvern_

The Ripoll Transcript was coming to the Law Archives; she had done it! Grace read and re-read the brief email a dozen more times before she finally believed it.

She smiled.

###

In his office, Mycroft smiled.

###

The End

... or is it?

Many thanks to everyone who has read and commented on this story. It was fun to write.


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